


Hit The Dek!

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Body Positivity, Coming Out, Food Porn (but not what you think... they just eat a lot of delicious food), Frottage, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Getting Older, Getting Together, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Assault, Pop Culture Binges, Premature Ejaculation, Public Works Projects, Rimming, Rollerblading, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Burn, Tightly Knit Community, Weekend Friends, street hockey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: ***HIATUS***...Iwillbe returning to this fic when the show finale airs. I'm burnt out, y'all. I don't wanna start resenting what I love. I'm taking a break from destiel, but keep an eye on your email for other things I will work on in the meantime. I love you all.Team Winchester and Team Krushnic meet every Saturday to play a round of street hockey.Dean and Castiel, respective captains of their teams, have a lot of... friction to work through. In the rink they're fierce rivals, keeping each other on their toes and battling it out, neck and neck for wins and losses.Outside of the rink, though, Dean battles through his insecurities while Castiel battles every day difficulties not only with English, but with his 'people skills' in general - as well as a past that he seems reluctant to reveal details about.Are they suited to be together, or are they better off as rivals?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 355
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> another wip yay!!!  
> *crowd stays quiet*  
> *whispers softly* yay...
> 
> y'know you can honestly blame [MomentsAway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsAway)for basically the last 3 or so stories that i've published. not only has she been my cheerleader and occasional beta, she also sticks earworms directly into my brain and i just... can't... get them out until i write them... 
> 
> in this story there are nods to canon and also nods to other stories in my own archive because i'm a narcissistic bitch ;)  
> again, i rely heavily on google for the russian. as for cas being esl i grew up in an esl environment, so a lot of his grammar inaccuracies are based on real conversations i've had with esl russians (as well as other esl students from different areas of the world!).  
> i have 14k already written out so far but i'm honestly just too excited to keep this from y'all. also prodigal bond showed me that having my babes as cheerleaders really helps move wip's along nicely, so props and many thanks to all my readers.  
> you don't gotta know much about hockey to be able to enjoy this fic!!!
> 
> without getting too sappy, i want y'all to know that you're literally the only reason i still write fanfiction. i went through an event that i was sure would completely remove my desire to make content for fandom but... here i am, six months later and still going strong, because _you_ believe in me. so it's a little sappy, but i don't think y'all understand just _how much_ you mean to me. every day i am thankful for you; thankful for your thoughts, questions, comments, excitement, sadness, fear, anger, thankful for every single person that even glances at my works, thankful for your time and energy. i always do my best to be deserving of it all because _you_ deserve the best, too. i love you. i love you.
> 
> without further ado... my next chaptered, fluff-filled, low-angst creation!

Saturday morning. Dew on the grass. Sun over the mountains. Chill on the breeze. Dean exhales slowly, watching his breath fog in front of him. It’s chilly, mid-March, quiet surrounding him as he gazes at the concrete rink in front of him. It used to be part of the nearby skate park, but when funding was cut for the area, Dean and all his friends pitched in to Parks & Recreation to get the area reworked into an outdoor rink. They made back their investment in the first year by selling tickets to their games, and even though it’s technically a past-time for them, it’s been worth every single penny.

He’s always the first to arrive. He checks the perimeter of the rink to find any weak spots in the walls that might need reinforcing. He pulls on his rollerblades and skates in zig-zags with a broom to remove any rocks or debris that may have gathered on the concrete. He totes two crates of water from the trunk of his car to put one next to each player bench, along with a box of protein bars each. He makes sure to check the weather forecast, brings extra gear from his car to put in the “extra” box between the benches, and then spends time rolling around the rink, stretching all his limbs and waking his body up from the Monday-Friday grind of being stuck underneath cars from nine-to-five. He’s thirty-five and as athletic as he might consider himself, his body is slowly refusing to contort.

The second to arrive is his brother, and technically, they arrive together, but Sam prefers to warm up with a jog. He’s a lawyer but is somehow more flexible and fit than Dean, though that’s probably because he actually exercises outside of roller hockey and eats ‘clean meals’ or whatever. 

After the two of them set up and start pulling on their gear, it really depends on who shows up next. Saturday morning games are a standing date, so long as the weather permits, everyone in a giant group chat always able to confirm their attendance. If all of them can’t come they make do, but the great days are when everyone can show up. 

Dean’s sitting on the bench pulling on his chest pads when Sam jogs up to him, a sheen of sweat on his brow and chest. Dean grins, throwing a knee pad at Sam’s gut, delighting in the surprised noise he lets out. 

Glaring at his brother, Sam sits next to him, reaching out to punch him directly on the C emblazoned on his left breast. “Is that anyway to treat your teammate?”

“Uh, this is hockey, not ballet,” Dean says. 

Sam rolls his eyes, reaching for his rollerblades. “Whatever. Did everyone confirm?”

“Just got the last text from Charlie,” Dean says, fastening all his gear. Chest pad, elbow pads, knee pads, shin guards. Pretty much everyone wears shorts for ease of movement, and the padding helps a lot, but road rash is pretty much unavoidable if you take a spill. 

“Cool. You gonna actually come to breakfast with us today?” Sam asks.

It’s the same old argument every weekend. Dean’s team plays another team, the other team’s captain invites them all to breakfast ‘on him’ because he’s some sort of rich douchebag, and Dean always declines. He knows it’s rude, he knows everyone thinks it’s annoying, but honestly he just can’t _stand_ the other team captain. 

Castiel Krushnic pisses him the hell off. 

Everyone else seems to love him, which only pisses him off even further.

The fact that Castiel graciously accepts that Dean declines his invite every time pisses him off _even further_.

“No,” Dean says, which causes Sam to huff, so he snaps, “and I ain’t changin’ my mind, man, so knock it off.” 

“I don’t know why you hate him so much,” Sam says, strapping on his shin guards. “He’s a really cool guy. You two actually have a lot in common.” 

“Doubt it,” Dean mutters as he stands.

“Sheesh, _fine_ ,” Sam says snootily. “You’re just gonna go home and mope into a bottle of beer anyway.” 

“Yep, me and ol’ Marg have a standing Saturday brunch date of our own,” Dean says. He picks up his stick from where it’s leaned against the rink wall with the others, **D.W.** messily scratched into the handle. He enters the rink, shuts out Sam’s stupid hippie ‘be friends with everyone’ shtick, and starts doing laps to get used to moving with his goalie gear on.

Little by little people show up. Both teams are co-ed, both teams are pretty much friends, and as they all start to gather and put on their gear, they all start joking and laughing together. Their games are fun and friendly, and while they follow the rules to the T they still have a hoot playing them. The only person Dean has an issue with is Castiel, and that’s because the guy showed up out of nowhere one day when they had an uneven amount of people on each team, and asked if he could play. He played, he was awesome, and Victor’s team had happily declared him their new captain. So Castiel’s only been part of the team for a little less than a year, while Dean’s crew has been playing at this spot for about three.

And it’s not like Dean doesn’t have a reason to hate Castiel! The dude barely speaks at all. He’s super awkward and has a hard time following plays on words and generally stupid or punny jokes. He’s Russian, his accent thick when he does talk, so that’s probably why he doesn’t talk too much, but a person doesn’t need to _talk_ to be included in social events. Hell, he doesn’t even try. 

On the ice he’s stone cold. Dean knew he was in trouble the instant Castiel asked to play because his Russian accent could be picked up by someone with a hearing aid. It’s like, part of Russian DNA to be good at hockey. Any kind of hockey. The first time Dean saw Castiel swoop around on his rollerblades and make net after net he felt a sense of dread. Dean’s pretty good at hockey, ok? Like actually very good. Probably the best out of everyone. But Castiel is _better_ and that’s just- well-

!!!

Anyway Castiel is stupid and stupid good at hockey and stupid handsome and his gummy smile makes clouds part and angels sing and _Dean fucking hates him_.

At first, Castiel had been oblivious to Dean’s animosity.

Then one day, he wasn’t. 

Now they’re mortal enemies. Dean’s pretty sure dramatic music plays from the ether whenever they make eye contact in the rink. Castiel meets his glares coolly, artfully dodges past him when they get close, and whenever they meet on the rink… well, let’s just say Sam had to invent a penalty box. 

Losing the goalie to a penalty sucked ass so Dean started to just suck it up and try to stow his bullshit. 

But whenever Castiel comes at him on the rink, rollerblading smooth as butter and dribbling the ball so seamlessly it’s like his blade isn’t even touching it, Dean gets lost in his intense blue eyes, stares at how broad his shoulders are even without padding, tends to stare at how his big, tan hands grip the stick… 

Uh- right- Dean Winchester, resident closeted bisexual, hates Castiel Krushnic. That’s that. No depth or meaning to that at all.

Nothing to unpack at all. Ok? Ok. 

Once everyone arrives and gets their gear on, everyone gets in the rink to start doing warm up laps. 

Charlie (Team Winchester, left wing) lets Jo (Team Winchester, right wing) push her around a bit because it’s some type of weird butch lesbian flirting thing. 

Victor (Team Krushnic, defense) and Luke (Team Krushnic, defense) skate neck in neck, rough housing to get out some of their aggression before the game begins. Thank God, because those two are basically the Beavis and Butthead of hockey defense when they’re together. 

Jack (Team Krushnic, goalie) stretches at the net while Balthazar (Team Krushnic, left wing) skates circles around him, blathering on about something that little, naive Jack probably doesn’t understand. 

Meg (Team Krushnic, right wing) and Gordon (Team Winchester, defense), also push each other around a bit, which could be mistaken for flirting, but Dean’s also pretty sure that Meg could knock Gordon flat on his ass if he said anything wrong to her. 

Dean (Team Winchester, Captain, goalie) stretches at the net while Benny (Team Winchester, defense) stretches nearby, the two of them talking about work that week. Benny’s another mechanic at the shop Dean works at and they often find time to bullshit and gripe about all the inconveniences they had to deal with that week, and definitely make sure they have time to joke about ol’ Uncle Bobby Singer and how many times they’ve had to show him how to compose an e-mail.

Sam (Team Winchester, center) and Castiel (Team Krushnic, captain, center) help each other stretch by pulling on each other’s limbs at the face-off line, talking about whatever girly hippie things they like to talk about together. Dean doesn’t pay attention to them at all. Not one bit. Nope. 

Once everybody spends about fifteen minutes stretching and making practice shots, they settle in for the game. Instead of playing in periods, these ‘for fun’ games only play until a team scores four points. Generally both teams are evenly matched. It’s always a fun game, and it never really matters who wins on days like this, but Dean’s always got it out for Castiel.

Always.

Because he hates him, ok? 

Not because he’s, like, weirdly obsessed with him. 

The face-off starts with Sam and Castiel slapping their sticks to the ground three times while yelling out “HIT THE DECK”, the movement happening on the “DEK” lightning quick. Sam’s tall but he’s agile, and he manages to wick the ball away from Castiel in a split second. He’s off, passing the ball to Charlie, who dribbles it a few times. Meg is on her in a flash, crowding her up against the wall; Charlie passes to Jo, who passes back to Sam, who shoots.

Jack does the splits beautifully to block. 

Castiel grabs the pink ball, circling back to center line with Sam for the face off. 

Sam gets the ball, but Castiel ducks under to steal it out from his blade. Fucker’s like lightning on the ice, way faster and almost delicate in how he moves versus the other players. Everyone knows as soon as Castiel has the ball there’s hardly any stopping him; which is why Sam practices his reflexes to ensure he wins as many face-offs as possible. Castiel rockets down the rink, Benny and Gordon doing their best to block him, but the guy’s like a fucking figure skater, dodging between them, and then suddenly he’s right in front of Dean, blue eyes visible from the plastic eyeguard of his mask, smirk on his lips, cheeks flushed from the chill of the morning and the exertion of moving so damn fast-

He shoots, and Dean catches the ball in his gloved hand. 

Scowling, Castiel circles the net to head back to the center line. Gordon and Benny knock Dean’s helmet happily, everyone resumes their spot, and the game continues. 

As they play, the morning heats up. There’s a few spills; Charlie gets her blade stuck with Meg’s, they high-stick, and in their attempt to bring their blades back below waist level they manage to get their legs tangled up and they go down. Their padding protects pretty much everything but Charlie makes a complaint about her tailbone, and Meg has to take a second to pull her hair up into a ponytail. After that Gordon gets a little handsy with Victor, which causes Luke to get handsy with Gordon, and the three of them end up in a scuffle that Dean has to skate all the way to the other side of the rink to break up. He and Castiel pull them all apart, they take a ten minute break, and then resume. 

Luke can’t keep a lid on it, though, so he gets put in the penalty box. With one less player Jo scores on Jack, the score a pleasing 2-0, Winchester. Things are going swimmingly until Gordon goes after Victor again, this time knocking him down with a hard shove. It’s Castiel that breaks the two of them up with a surprising show of strength, cursing something in Russian at Gordon, who clearly can’t understand him, but looks pretty scared, anyway.

Sam awards Team Krushnic a penalty shot. 

All the players clear the rink save for Castiel, who stares down the length of it at Dean. 

No big deal. Castiel is just a guy who probably got offered a spot in the NHL and refused because he’s, like, better than playing on a professional team or whatever. Dean’s a damn good goalie. Most of the time their games go on so long because it’s hard for people to score on him, but Castiel’s team manages to keep better control of the ball. They’re pretty evenly matched.

But for penalties, it’s always Castiel versus Dean. 

And Castiel always scores. 

He’s just- he’s really distracting, ok? He always wears athletic pants when they play, but they only accentuate his beefy thighs. He wears tank tops which is kind of stupid because he’s gotten road rash more than once on his biceps, his beautiful tattooed biceps that are perfectly curvy and… 

Anyway! He looks good coming down the rink, like a real hockey player, like someone any NHL team would sacrifice children in order to have. It’s just him and Dean and Dean has no choice but to focus all of his attention on Castiel, watching his blade move, watching the ball move, and doing his best to anticipate his every move.

Definitely hard to anticipate anything when Cas gets within five feet and _smirks and blows a fucking kiss at Dean_.

He does it every time.

And every fucking time Dean’s response time slows down by half a second - enough for Castiel to slap the ball into the net. The corners, the five hole, he’s shot from basically every angle in to every open spot. 

It’s embarrassing.

Everyone assumes that Castiel just freaks Dean out, because Dean says loudly and often how weird the dude is, but they don’t know that Dean’s closeted bisexual heart goes _doki doki_ when Castiel centralizes and focuses all of his sexual finesse into a single smirk, a single wink, and a single blown kiss, resulting in a penalty score every God damn time.

Dean’s team groans while Castiel’s team cheers. 

The ball goes in Dean’s five hole. Castiel circles around the net, speaking only loud enough for Dean’s ears. 

“Better luck next time.”

The cocky bastard! He skates over to his team, which congratulates him with helmet pats and shoulder pad shakes. Dean groans and does his best to not melt into the ground.

2-1.

_God, if you exist, you’re an asshole, but please give me strength._

Over the next hour and a half Castiel’s team makes a sweeping comeback. They break for water and snacks and when they’re back in the rink, Castiel’s team seems to be reinvigorated. Luke is being less of an ass, so is Gordon, and they’re finally playing some hockey instead of some weird clumsy game of trying to push people over and trying not to get a stick between the legs. Castiel’s team ends up winning 4-2, which honestly burns Dean’s ego quite a bit, and true to habit, Castiel invites everyone out for breakfast. All they do is go to Denny’s and cause inappropriate commotion for a group of thirty-somethings (minus Jack, who is twenty and an adorable baby. Dean’s not quite sure where he came from or if he knew someone before joining the hockey team, but everyone has collectively claimed him as their little brother). 

All their gear comes off and gets tossed into their cars. Dean spends some time cleaning up the area, making sure the leftover water bottles and protein bars get put in the trunk of his car along with the extra gear. He debates running over the rink with a broom but decides against it last minute. It’s twelve-thirty and he’s actually starving, looking forward to making a monster sandwich when he gets home.

Everyone gets in their cars and starts driving off towards Denny’s. Sam helps Dean clear up, and as Dean shuts the trunk to his car, he notices that Castiel hasn’t left yet. Frowning, Dean stomps over to the driver door and cranks it open, flinging himself into seat. He can feel Sam’s eye roll even if he doesn’t see it, and bites back an annoyed groan as Sam calls Castiel over. They chat on the other side of the car, Dean turning on the vehicle and roaring the engine, turning on the radio and blasting _Black Dog_ to drown out the sound of Castiel’s adorable cute, nose-scrunching laugh. 

Sam gets in the car. 

Dean huffs. “Aren’t you going to breakfast?”

“Yep,” Sam buckles himself in.

“Aren’t you riding with Constantine? Y’know, like every other Saturday?”

“Nope.” Sam settles, sending Dean a sunny smile. 

Dean glares. Sam doesn’t blink.

Sighing heavily, Dean knows he’s stuck. He’d never force his brother to miss out on breakfast. He recognizes this for the ploy it is, putting his car in gear and peeling out of the parking lot to head towards Denny’s. He sees Castiel’s stupid economic car in his rear view mirror, glares harder, and nearly sends Sam through the windshield when he parks at the restaurant. 

Lifting a finger towards his brother, Dean seethes, “You win this time, you fucking greedy asshole. But when I hate this and have a shitty time, you’re gonna do my laundry for a fuckin’ week.” 

Sam shrugs and says nothing, getting out of the car. 

When the gang sees Dean enter the restaurant they pretty much all whoop and cheer, startling the employees and elderly people seated nearby. Dean shushes them by waving his arms and hands, rolling his eyes when Charlie squishes Jo towards the end of the table, gesturing towards the empty chair next to her. 

“And at long last, the fair maiden joins us!” Charlie announces. “The maiden shall sit on the Queen’s right, as is tradition. Maiden! What dost thou wish to imbibe?” 

Castiel sits in the empty chair on Dean’s other side. Charlie gasps in excitement, grabbing her glass and tapping her spoon noisily against it. 

“Alas! The knight has taken post next to the maiden! Truly, a remarkable day in the kingdom. Here we are, united as one!” 

“Here ye, here ye!” Jack says, lifting his glass of orange juice in toast. 

Everyone at the mish-mash of tables in chairs, including Luke and Gordon, lift their glasses in toast. Dean flushes down to his fucking feet. 

“You’re really drilling in why I never wanna come to these things, Charles,” he grumbles under his breath.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “You’ll join me on Wednesday LARP nights but can’t handle a little public declaration in a Denny’s?”

“That’s different-”

“You LARP with Charlie?” Castiel asks. 

Dean tries his best not to pull his lighter out of his pocket and set himself on fire. He sends Castiel a terse smile, “Yep.”, then returns to trying to ignore the man’s presence. Charlie rolls her eyes, stabbing her fork into Dean’s thigh and hissing “ _talk to him_ ” through her teeth. Covering up his yelp with a cough, Dean scoots his chair away from his psycho best friend, which puts him closer to Castiel, and welp, this is just his life now.

When he looks over at Castiel, the man is frowning softly. 

“Are you… uncomfortable?” Castiel asks, stumbling over his pronunciation slightly. 

Dean’s blush stains his cheeks. “No. Just- I don’t. Uh, big group functions like this in close quarters aren’t really my… thing.”

Tilting his head, Castiel gives Dean an inquisitive look. “Yet you arrange hockey game and team?” 

“That’s different,” Dean says, putting his napkin in his lap and fidgeting with it. He’s never actually had a conversation with Castiel. He kind of hates it. And kind of loves it. No he definitely hates it more than he loves it. “Y’know, outdoors, more playing than conversation.” 

“You are inverted?” 

Dean sends Castiel a confused glance. “What?” 

“You no like talking with lot of people,” Castiel clarifies. 

Dean squints, then feels a lightbulb go off. “You mean ‘introverted’?”

Castiel doesn’t look embarrassed by his mistake at all, nodding seriously. “ _Da_. Introverted.” 

“I mean,” Dean thinks about it, “I guess? I like hangin’ out with people and stuff but too many people in a small place is…” he makes an idle gesture with his hand.

Castiel nods. “I am same. Big group… too loud. Too much talk.” 

“That makes sense,” Dean chuckles a little. “You’re not exactly a chatty Cathy.”

Castiel squints. “No, I am Castiel.” 

Dean blinks.

Castiel’s head tilts further. 

This Castiel is one-hundred percent different than the confident and cocky Castiel in the rink.

“Who’s ready to order?” A middle-aged waitress asks from the head of the group. 

Everyone starts talking all at once, arguing with each other about who’s ready and who’s not ready. Dean lets out a little sigh, adjusts in his seat, then raises his voice to be heard without yelling. 

“CAN IT.” 

The table hushes. 

“Quit actin’ like animals. This how you are every Saturday?”

Most everyone looks guilty.

Dean rubs a hand over his face, scrubs his mouth, then sighs. He sends a charming smile to the waitress and says, “Five minutes, please.” She sends him an unimpressed look before walking away. He then makes a point to make eye contact with every single person at the table. “You idiots are going to have your order ready in the next five minutes. When she comes back we’re gonna order clockwise. No passing, no stumbling. Keep your thumb in the menu if you have to. Order your drink and your food and tell her if you’re gonna cover someone else’s bill so she can keep her ticket organized. Capisce?” 

Everyone murmurs their assent, busying themselves with looking at the menu and discussing things _quietly_. He catches Castiel sending him an amused look, which makes the blush return in full force as Dean grumbles out, “What?” 

“You very commanding. People listen.”

“Just used to babysitting grown adults,” Dean deflects the weird compliment. 

Something glimmers in Castiel’s eyes. “I think you are good at giving orders.” 

Dean’s heart is trying to break out of his chest, he’s sure. There’s no way his blood can rush this fast and be considered healthy. “I guess.” 

“Mm.” That’s all Castiel gives him, before his eyes turn to his own menu. “You know I buy, right?” 

“People should at least have the option to pay for themselves,” Dean says, annoyed. This guy. All rich and shit. 

“I invite. I pay. No argue.” 

Dean knows that the last part is directed at him, so he quiets down, too. 

“Also good at listening to order.” Castiel muses, almost too quiet to hear. “I like.”

But Dean does hear it and he chokes on his water, thumping on his chest as Charlie gives him an alarmed look and starts thumping on his back. It’s a bit too much altogether so he only coughs more before setting down his glass and picking up his napkin, covering his entire face as he tries to get himself under control. 

Is Castiel Krushnic fucking real? 

This is why Dean hasn’t gone out to breakfast with them. Oh God. 

The waitress comes back and everyone orders like good kids. At the end she looks at Castiel, clearly used to waiting on this table on Saturdays, and he gives her a curt nod, a silent message passing between them that he’ll be taking care of the ticket. Conversation resumes at the table, though now it’s much better mannered, everyone talking about their last week, the upcoming week, and when they’ll be scheduling their first event game of the season. Their food comes and Dean only has to glare at a few people until they pick up their utensils, and then they all settle into eating, joking, and laughing. 

Next to him Castiel stays silent. He clearly enjoys observing things around him instead of engaging in conversation, which Dean understands to a degree. If he doesn’t understand a reference or a word he doesn’t pull out his phone to Google it; he just frowns a little, thinks about it, and then moves on. Without all the padding Dean’s able to fully see the tattoos littering Castiel’s arms; he has a full sleeve on his right arm sporting a depiction of a beautiful dragon flying over a peaceful valley decorated with beautiful flowers and some bumblebees, all in beautiful and vivid color. His left arm is completely black and greyscale, a distorted replica of the solar system. When Dean looks closer he sees a few spots covered with athletic tape; Castiel notices him looking, then wordlessly reaches to start pulling the tape off. It’d be weird for Dean to tell him not to, because obviously he’s looking; they’re dermal piercings, Dean’s shocked to see. Glimmering white diamonds embedded in Castiel’s tan skin. One rests right above the bend of his wrist in the center of a star, easily hidden by shirt cuffs. Another is halfway up his forearm, glimmering in the bend of the black and white Milky Way. The last is just before the bend of his elbow in the center of what Dean thinks might be Venus. 

The combination of the greyscale and the piercings is beautiful and mildly stunning. Dean wasn’t surprised by the tattoos, not really; but the full sleeves along with the almost dainty piercings has Dean rethinking anything he knew about Castiel.

“Those are pretty badass,” he finds himself saying. Ah, great. Idiot.

“ _Spasibo_ ,” Castiel replies, the faintest warm tones in his voice. “Do you have tattoo?” 

“None where you can see,” Dean says. Then blushes hotly when Castiel’s lips curl in a smirk. “I mean- like, I got the Aquarius constellation on my back and my mom’s birthday on my ribs. Got the golden snitch on my thigh.” 

The last part makes Castiel frown. “Sneetch?” 

“You know, from Harry Potter?” Dean says. Castiel blinks slow and cat-like. “Quidditch?” 

Castiel shakes his head “I do not know Harry Potter.” 

Dean tries to keep his jaw from dropping, “You serious?” 

“Yes?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“Oh my God, you _have_ to watch those movies. What human on this earth hasn’t heard of Harry Potter?”

“At least one,” Castiel says wryly. 

Dean manages to snort a laugh at the dry joke. He shakes his head, sending Castiel a small smile. “Y’know what, maybe you aren’t so bad after all.” 

Castiel sends Dean a small, secretive smile. “I think you not bad, too.” 

“Break it up lovebirds,” Charlie says loudly in Dean’s other ear.

Dean blushes hot, Castiel chuckles and settles back in his seat, and breakfast goes by surprisingly… pleasant. 

Huh.

Imagine that.

\--

**Dean:** hey it’s Dean  
**Dean:** i got ur number from the group text hope u dont mind

**Castiel:** I don’t mind. May I help you? 

**Dean:** just makin sure: u REALLY haven’t seen harry potter?

**Castiel:** Really.

**Dean:** so… like… r u gonna watch it?

**Castiel:** No.

**Dean:** WHAT  
**Dean:** why

**Castiel:** I have a hard time watching English movies by myself. It gets annoying having to Google things every five minutes. 

**Dean:** oh man, i bet  
**Dean:** u text rly good  
**Dean:** but i guess that’s different than talking huh

**Castiel:** Quite.

**Dean:** so like… do u need a movie buddy?  
**Dean:** so u can actually enjoy the movie and can stay off ur phone  
**Dean:** being on ur phone during movies is rly rude

**Castiel:** Are you offering to be my movie buddy?

**Dean:** i would b willing to sacrifice my free time

**Castiel:** How honorable.  
**Castiel:** Forgive me for being blunt, but I was sure you didn’t like me. You were polite at breakfast, but I assumed it was because I was paying.

**Dean:** look, ok i didn’t like u for a rly long time. but i guess ur cool. and i’m willing to get 2 know u better

**Castiel:** Why the change of heart?

**Dean:** let me ask u this: have you seen star wars? Star trek? Game of thrones. Any of it

**Castiel:** As I said, if there’s not a Russian dub or subtitles available, I probably haven’t seen it. I’m proficient in English text, but I have a hard time speaking, and if people speak too quickly, I can’t understand them. 

**Dean:** makes sense  
**Dean:** so do u need a movie / tv buddy? 

**Castiel:** Yes.

**Dean:** do u always have weekends off?

**Castiel:** Yes.

**Dean:** btw what do u do? R u like a mafia boss lol

**Castiel:** Yes.

**Dean:**...  
**Dean:** u know ur humor doesn’t really register good thru text

**Castiel:** I thought it was quite funny.

**Dean:** whatevr. U wanna come to my house after hockey breakfast on saturdays and binge shows? 

**Castiel:** Yes, thank you. 

**Dean:** don’t thank me yet. Thank me after watching 10hrs of harry potter all at once

**Castiel:** I look forward to it.

\--

At the next hockey game, Team Winchester _creams_ Team Krushnic. Sam has a serious _Toldja_ expression on his face while Dean throws a celly in the net, something he pointedly ignores. It’s not like he’s playing better because he stowed whatever baggage he had with Castiel, ok? It’s not like that at all. Dean was just able to focus better on the game instead of Castiel’s hips, shoulders, or how the chinstrap of his helmet cuts into the sharp line of his jaw--

Look, he could just focus, ok? The fact that Castiel looked pretty pleased at the turn of events as well doesn’t fly under anyone’s radar but that’s got nothing to do with anything. And when everyone strips down their gear and starts ambling to their cars, talking about how much they’re gonna gorge at Denny’s, no one makes a peep about how Dean gets in his beautiful car and follows them. And certainly no one says jack squat when Dean sits between Castiel and Charlie, again, the two of them exchanging some glances that cause Charlie to kick his shin under the table. 

_Everyone_ starts hootin’ and hollerin’ when Castiel says “I will follow you” after breakfast as they disperse to their cars.

“Cool it!” Dean snaps at large, loud enough for the elderly couple getting out of their PT Cruiser to hear and stumble slightly at. Huffing, he points his finger first at Charlie, and then makes a large circle, spinning on foot. “I don’t wanna hear shit from _anyone_. It is what it is and it ain’t what you think it is so _cool. It._ Capisce?” 

He gets a few half-assed sarcastic replies as well as a few cowed foot scuffs and calls it good. 

Sam snickers to himself as they get into the car, smartly saying nothing as they head back towards their house. He and Sam have lived together for, literally, their whole lives - even when Sam packed up and went to Stanford to go to Fancy Lawyer School™; as far as they’re concerned, their home is wherever the other one is. Both parents died when they were teens and that was that. Uncle Bobby put them up for a little bit, especially when Dean dropped out and worked for him full time. Bobby had Dean sign some mumbo jumbo when he was eighteen that apparently gave the auto shop to him upon Bobby’s full retirement, which is cool, though sometimes Dean wonders what it’d be like to have a few college credits under his belt. Sending Sammy off was more important, though, especially since Dean had to go with him. (Well, he didn’t _have_ to, but you understand the gist by now) Thankfully Bobby’s got contacts, like, everywhere, so finding work at a shop in Palo Alto had been a breeze. 

Anyway, where Sam is, Dean is, and vice versa. No one says shit about how they might be cramping one another’s style, but the house that Dean got grandfathered into (again, Bobby’s got so many contacts Dean thinks he’s got some sort of illicit side business) is pretty big, so unless he and Sam occupy the same space at the same time, they don’t see a lot of each other.

So. He pulls his beast of a car into the driveway. Castiel parks on the street. He pops the trunk so he and Sam can grab their padding so they can take it inside and get it all clean and smell-goody, leaving the water and the protein bars for next time just to make sure they’re not forgotten. Castiel offers to take some padding so Dean can unlock the door, help he readily takes, and then they’re inside. 

Dean’s not really a proud guy. Or- look, he just doesn’t puff his chest at a lot of things. He doesn’t have a GED, he’s coming up on middle age and still doesn’t always throw away his boxers that have mysteriously gotten holes in them, but what he _is_ proud of is his place.

It wasn’t in the best shape when he and Sammy moved in, so they spent all their free time and all their extra coin fixing it up. It’s two storeys, four beds and two and a half bath, with a front porch to envy and a fenced in backyard. They’d demo’d the majority of the main floor to open everything up since Dean is basically a fifties housewife that loves hosting gatherings not only for holidays but also for funsies. The upstairs is still under construction, the two guest rooms down to the bare bones. Dean and Sam’s rooms are redone to their tastes. Sam had bullied Dean taking the master bedroom, and Dean had put up a fight for about five minutes but as soon as Sam brought it up Dean had cheered in his head but acted put out just to put up a front. Can’t let Sam know that Dean was way too excited to have the option of putting in a spa bathroom. 

A man has needs, ok?

Anyway, something Dean _is_ proud of is the work he and Sammy put into this house. It still has a ways to go, but for what they’ve done, Dean thinks they’ve done a pretty awesome job. 

Castiel seems to agree, if the appreciative look he gives the space as he walks in means anything on his usually stoic face. 

“I’ll… leave you guys to it,” Sam says with a tone of voice that makes Dean want to punch him directly in the nose. It must show on Dean’s face, because Sam scurries off quickly, leaping up the stairs with his long legs, the sound of a door shutting followed by the shower turning on the only sounds he makes. 

“Ah shit, showers,” Dean groans. 

“I am ok,” Castiel says, pinching his shirt and pulling it away from his body a few times to fan himself. 

“I mean,” Dean lifts his arm ungracefully to give himself a sniff, then shrugs, “we’re both dudes who do sports. Not like we smell like anything we haven’t smelled before.” 

“This where we watch?” Castiel asks, turning to face the huge flat screen TV mounted on the wall above the electric fireplace.

Dean makes a grandiose gesture to the large sectional sofa. “This where we watch.”

Castiel snorts at the bad imitation of his accent, before sitting down on the long bed-like end of the sofa. “You say ten hours. Is it really that long?”

“Longer,” Dean says gleefully. He turns on the TV and boots up the Blu-Ray player, rearranging some of the movie cases on the shelves next to the television so he can find the Harry Potter movies. 

“Longer?” Castiel echoes. 

“You _gotta_ watch the extended versions and all the extras,” Dean says. 

“I thought I was with Dean Winchester, not Charlie Bradbury.” 

Dean bursts out a laugh, then covers it up with a cough. Castiel’s sense of humor always comes out of left field and amuses the heck out of him, especially when it’s delivered in his dry tone of voice and that wicked accent. Clearing his throat, Dean finally gets all of the movies and sets them on the coffee table where they’re accessible, then sets about putting the first one in the player. “Am I really on Charlie’s level?”

“No one is,” Castiel muses, “but you are close.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean sets up the movie and then gracelessly flops onto the couch, sending Castiel a sunny smile. There’s a few feet of space between them, totally respectable. “Now shut up and watch.” 

Castiel leans back against the cushions and pillows, settling in, his attention on the television as the opening credits start to roll.

Throughout the movie he asks Dean questions. Dean usually has to pause to explain things - grammar things - and when Castiel asks a plot-related question Dean just waggles his brows and tells him to keep watching. This is usually met with a scowl, which Dean doesn’t find adorable. The first movie passes like that and when it’s done, Dean feels like an excited chihuahua as he looks at Castiel hopefully.

“Well? Wanna watch the second one?”

Castiel looks at the screen thoughtfully, then turns to face Dean, blinking in surprise at how eager the other man seems to be. Also at how close Dean is. Their noses almost brush. Blushing hotly Dean sets himself back to where he was, coughing lightly and standing up to eject the Blu-Ray and put it back in its case.

“I think,” comes Castiel’s voice, “I like Harry Potter.” 

Dean’s grin is hidden, his back to Castiel as he loads up the second one. “Pretty neat, huh?” 

Castiel’s accent rolls over the ‘r’ as he replies, “Pretty neat.” 

Dean sits down again, inordinately pleased at how the afternoon is turning out. 

\--

Castiel is wicked funny. When he doesn’t understand some of the English isms he either asks Dean or makes a terribly punny joke about them. Half of them Dean doesn’t understand, which leads to Castiel saying “it’s funnier in Russian”, which comes full circle when Dean has to pause the movie so he can explain the joke to him. They make it through three movies before Dean’s stomach growls and Sam comes tromping down the stairs, bound by their weird psychic link, both announcing it’s dinner time. Castiel tries to excuse himself to leave, but Dean tells him that’s a no-go, they can at least get through two more movies tonight, which seems to mollify Castiel. He’s a bit awkward as a guest, which has Dean wondering what kind of host Castiel is. 

Sam and Dean argue about what to have for dinner. Dean wants to order pizza. Sam argues they could make a pizza at home and have it be way healthier. Castiel stays silent while Sam and Dean bicker and argue like a damn married couple, and continues to stay silent as he rifles through the fridge and freezer, pulling out this and that. Sam and Dean abruptly stop arguing when the smell of cooking meat wafts over to where they’re standing by the kitchen island, both their gazes turning towards Castiel, who is pushing some meat around in a pan. 

“Uh…” Dean hedges closer. “What are you doing?” 

“Make dinner,” Castiel replies easily. Dean noticed that as soon as they stopped watching the movies, Castiel’s English had gotten pretty rough, like most of his brain capacity had been used processing the information, leaving his own speaking ability a bit off. 

“Not that we don’t appreciate the gesture,” Sam says, also hedging closer, “but you don’t need to cook, Cas.”

Castiel sends them a dry look over his shoulder, where he has a dish towel draped. “You cook?” Sam and Dean shake their heads. “Then I cook. Set table. Burgers.” He turns back to the stove. “Dean, chop vegetable.” 

Sam and Dean split up immediately to do Castiel’s bidding. Sam sets the breakfast nook neatly, then has a seat at the island where he helps Dean chop and slice vegetables. The lettuce gets shredded, the onions and tomatoes get sliced, the cheese gets carefully cut. The smell of the meat cooking is tantalizing; Castiel sets the patties in the oven to stay warm while he carefully toasts the buns in the pan with the leftover meat juices, while Sam cracks open a few beers and sets them on the table.

Dean can’t wait.

Sam sniffs the air. “Hey, did you use the meat in the green packaging?”

Castiel sends Sam a sly smile. “ _Da_.”

“Nice.”

Dean sends them both a suspicious look. “What’s in the green packaging?” 

“Good for you,” Castiel says.

“What, like leaner?” Dean frowns. 

“Sit,” Castiel says.

The brothers bring all the dressings and condiments to the table, where they sit, the pair of them on the long end of the bench, leaving the short end of the L-shape for Castiel. He brings over the toasted buns, putting two on each plate, then gets the patties, putting one on each bun, then puts all of the hot dishes safely away before seating himself as well. Sam and Dean look at the spread with appreciation- Dean reaches for the mayonnaise, before Sam’s hand on his wrist stops him, his hazel eyes sending Dean a pointed look.

“What?”

“Cas,” Sam sends the man a warm smile, “do you say grace?”

“Grace?” Castiel’s head tilts slightly. 

“I mean- do you pray before you eat?” 

“Ah,” Castiel nods, then shakes his head. “No more.” 

That has Dean curious. First of all, Sam knew to ask, so maybe it’s a cultural thing? Are Russians really religious? Second of all, it sounds like Castiel used to say grace before his meals. Why has he suddenly stopped? A dozen questions go burning through Dean’s brain and distract him so much, he misses the start of grabbing all the good slices of the dressings. Grumbling, he puts extra cheese on his patty, along with some barbecue sauce, avoiding the onions but being generous with the pickles. 

The first bite is heaven, wiping his mind clear from any previous thoughts. Groaning out loud, Dean smacks his lips as he chews, sending Castiel and Sam a messy, open-mouthed smile. 

“Good?” Castiel asks with a small smirk.

Dean can’t even find the decency to be embarrassed, though Sam manages to do a good job at it for him. “So good. So juicy.” 

Sam snorts. “Just like a real burger, huh?” 

Looking affronted, Dean takes another bite. “Whaddya me, jus’ li’ a rea’ bur-her?”

“Fake meat,” Castiel says.

Dean pulls his burger away from his mouth as he chews. He watches the juice drip down his fingers, stares at the patty, then shrugs and crams another bite in his mouth. “Don’ care wha’ ‘tis. Fu’kin’ goo’.”

“Wow,” Sam says, a pleased and disbelieving smile on his face. He shifts a little in his seat, donning a mock-thoughtful look. “You know, if I would have made you a beyond beef burger, you wouldn’t have eaten it. But when Cas makes it, you suddenly don’t care that you’re eating an entirely vegetarian meal?” 

“Be’er coo’ ‘n you,” Dean says as he shoves the last bite into his mouth, sucking the juice off of his thumbs. After he finishes chewing, he wipes his mouth and sends Castiel a wink. “The way to my heart is through my stomach.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sam mumbles, picking up his own burger. 

“You still hungry?” Castiel asks, eyeing Dean’s empty plate. “No side.” 

“French fries would hit the spot,” Dean agrees, “but it can wait til’ we’re all done. Can make a batch to snack on during the rest of the movies.” 

“Most people choose popcorn as their snack,” Sam says snootily.

“You got me with the vegetarian patty,” Dean says as he stands up to start clearing the table, “don’t push your luck by suggesting a ‘healthier’ snack alternative for movie night.” 

Sam reaches out to pinch Dean’s side, his fingers missing by a scant inch as Dean dances away from the offending fingers. “You know when you hit forty your metabolism is going to crash and your arteries are going to clog, right?”

“If I get fat, so be it,” Dean says with a wolfish grin. 

“Better find someone who ‘loves you for you’ before then,” Sam snorts. 

“Why being fat bad?” Castiel asks, tone of voice genuinely confused. He scans Dean’s body with a scrutinizing eye. “I think Dean look cute, chubby.” 

Dean’s jaw drops.

Sam blinks.

Recovering first, Dean tips his nose up. “Looks like I don’t gotta try too hard to find that, huh?” 

Castiel picks up his beer for a drink. “Body cute, personality lacking.” 

“Hey!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the pacing seems disjointed and awkward and a bit too fast, it's because this is dean's disaster bi pov and we wouldn't be able to feel secondhand embarrassment any other way :D  
> this story won't be COMPLETELY angst free sorry!!!!  
> good golly i probably didn't catch all the typos and mistakes but i'm doing my best 🤪  
> p.s. any 'gay jokes' that appear in this story are not meant to be malicious, as this friend group is deceivingly tight and close and no one would _actually_ make an _offensive_ gay joke towards any of their friends. the banter might get a little out of control, but they all care for each other.  
> i hate long author's notes but here i am taking up all your time 😎

**Dean:** we on for finishing harry potter saturday?

 **Castiel:** We are ‘on’.

 **Dean:** cool  
**Dean:** so uh… remember when u said it’d be ok if i was fat?

 **Castiel:** I recall making a similar statement.

 **Dean:** were u like coming on to me?

 **Castiel** If I were to flirt with you, Dean, you would notice.

 **Dean:** oh

 **Castiel:** Are you disappointed?

 **Dean:** i mean like  
**Dean:** not really  
**Dean:** but if u wanted to

 **Castiel:** If I wanted to…?

 **Dean:** if u wanted to flirt that’d be ok  
**Dean:** i guess

 **Castiel:** Either you do or you do not want me to flirt.

 **Dean:** well idk if u even swing that way

 **Dean:** cas? 

**Castiel:** Sorry, I had to Google that phrase. I wasn’t aware that you ‘swing that way’.

 **Dean:** i mean like  
**Dean:** no one knows  
**Dean:** i didn’t even kno til like  
**Dean:** idk i just realized one day  
**Dean:** please don’t tell anyone

 **Castiel:** You have my confidence.  
**Castiel:** Why are you telling me?

 **Dean:** cuz in the off chance that u ALSO swing my way  
**Dean:** u could like  
**Dean:** flirt

 **Castiel:** Is that a flirtation?

 **Dean:** cmon man either tell me to shut up or tell me its ok

 **Castiel:** I can’t enjoy your fumblings?

 **Dean:** >:(

 **Castiel:** I have a secret to tell you, too.  
**Castiel:** The first day I went to the hockey rink and saw you playing, I wanted to play for two reasons. 1) You and your friends are all formidable hockey players and I knew I would be honored to skate alongside you. 2) I thought the goalie for the other team was very attractive.

 **Dean:** r u serious

 **Castiel:** As serious as your unironic bad grammar in text. 

**Dean:** wait what  
**Dean:** i wanna text fast u gotta make shortcuts to text fast >;(

 **Castiel:** It’s charming. 

**Dean:** is this weird? Like we both just admitted we think each other’s cute is that like… too 7th grade

 **Castiel:** I’m unaware how an American middle schooler would act in this situation but judging by your suggestion, it perhaps is. 

**Dean:** oh my god i can’t believe i have a crush on u, u freaking nerd

 **Castiel:** See you Saturday, Dean. 

**Dean:** i’m gonna kick ur ass again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\--

Team Winchester doesn’t beat Team Krushnic. They lose miserably in a shutout, 4-0, and Dean’s _pissed_. Everyone was all over the place while he was doing his damnedest to keep the net empty. Jo and Charlie seemed preoccupied with what Dean knows was a successful date they had last night, so they’d been busy making goo-goo eyes at each other. Gordon couldn’t keep his damn hands off of Luke and was in the penalty box for most of the game. Sam’s basically useless because his dumb ass fell during _yoga_ on Wednesday and he pulled something in his shoulder. Benny… well, Benny, like Dean, had been trying to pull everyone else’s weight, and when the whole game rests on a defender and a goalie, things don’t go right. 

Team Krushnic celebrates with a few laps around the rink, singing a terrible rendition of the Canadian national anthem mashed up with the Russian national anthem, which for some reason Victor and Luke know but are butchering terribly. It takes everything Dean has to be a good sport and stay in the net while his own team starts skating around with Team Krushnic - this is just for fun, after all, but still, he’s allowed to be annoyed. 

Castiel is the only one who picks up on it. He completes one lap with his team and then skates over towards Dean, arching a brow at the pouting goalie before smiling warmly.

“I thought you were going to kick my ass today?” Castiel asks, a small smirk on his lips but a tinge of kindness in his eyes.

“Everyone’s got their head in the clouds,” Dean grumbles, in the process of removing his gear. 

“They are in good moods,” Castiel observes. “Perhaps captain should be glad his team is not feeling bad about losing.”

“I guess,” Dean gripes. “But we got an actual game comin’ up in a month and if they play like that, the crowd’s gonna hate us and we’ll never sell another ticket again.” 

“That worries you?” Castiel arches a brow. 

“The money we make from ticket sales keep up the park and our rink,” Dean tries not to snap, but he sounds testy anyway.

“Dean,” Castiel reaches to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The contact of his huge hand on Dean’s aching bones both grounds him and calms him down. “They play right when time comes. Let them have fun. Blow steam.”

Speaking of steam, it seems to leak out of Dean’s ears until he’s ready to completely deflate. Sighing, Dean nods. “You’re right. I can be a hard ass sometimes.”

“I think your ass little soft,” Castiel says with a grin, “get softer with more burgers.”

“You tryna fatten me up?” Dean grumbles through a blush. 

“I think you worry too much about looks,” Castiel says. “You should worry more about happiness.”

“Coming from a forty year old guy with biceps as big as my neck.”

“ _I_ do not have abs,” Castiel says, lifting his shirt with one hand and patting his stomach with the other. He doesn’t have abs, that’s true; he’s still solid and there are indents where his abs once were, and there’s the tiniest bit of pudge on his lower belly that Dean suddenly, viciously, wants to put his mouth on. His shirt drops. “Do not worry about getting old or gaining weight. You are still very attractive.” 

“Alright, alright,” Dean puffs his cheeks and does his best to dodge away from Castiel and his knowing, pretty eyes. “Enough of the chick flick. Why don’t we go our separate ways after lunch so we can shower and change before the movies? We have six and seven left, but seven is split into two parts and pretty long.”

“Alright,” Castiel nods, unbothered at Dean’s abrupt change of subject. “Dinner again?”

“Yeah, and this time you’re not cooking,” Dean says staunchly, poking a finger into Castiel’s chest. God damn, his finger almost breaks. 

“No?” Castiel arches a brow and curls his pretty pink lips into a smirk that should be illegal. 

“No. And I’m gonna make you the Winchester Special,” Dean says, dropping his hand and idly massaging his forefinger with his thumb. Secretly. So Castiel doesn’t know that his thick, stacked body has wounded him. 

“Winchester Special?” Sam echoes, skating around them before coming to a stop next to Dean, throwing a sweaty arm over his brother. He’d worked very hard this game even through his wimpy wound, Dean can recognize, but that still doesn’t mean Dean won’t try to throw his gorilla arm off his shoulders. Sam easily ignores him. “Oh man, you’re in for a treat, Cas.” 

“What is this… Winchester Surprise?” Castiel asks, brow furrowing.

“A surprise,” Dean grunts, finally throwing Sam’s arm off of his shoulders. 

“But what’s for dinner?” Sam asks, grabbing Dean by the chest pad to try and get him closer to his armpit. 

“Fucking-” Dean wiggles, then shoots his leg between Sam’s to upset both their balances on their rollerblades, causing them to tumble down to the concrete. They dissolve into wordless grunts and laughs as they wrestle, their padding keeping their elbows and knees from getting too scraped up. Castiel rolls his eyes, folds his arms over his chest, waiting patiently. Dean comes out on top, popping up on his wheels and rolling away from his brother, quickly unclasping his pads so he can claim victory. Sam gets up a bit slower, glaring, before also taking off his pads, conceding defeat. Dean skates back around towards Castiel. “Winchester Surprise is for dessert but we’ll have home made pizza for dinner.”

Castiel nods, eyeing the brothers curiously. Their random scraps are just a regular thing to everyone else, but Castiel is still fairly new to everything, so whenever they fight he keeps a close eye on them like he might need to actually break something up. Which is probably a good thing, because if things did get out of control, Dean thinks they’d both respond better to Castiel instead of Luke or Victor.

“Cauliflower crust?” Sam calls out as Dean skates off the rink.

“Fine, hippie,” Dean calls back. He looks over at Sam and Castiel just in time to see them sharing a warm smile, and something in Dean’s chest… blooms. Dean is the only one Sam has relied on for so long, it’s nice to see him warming up to a new friend. He _has_ friends, hell the whole team is pretty buddy-buddy, but Sam doesn’t have his own… Charlie. Yeah, that’s a pretty good analogy. If Castiel can be that for him, Dean supports it. 

Speaking of…

“Winchester!” Charlie yells loudly. “Jo’s taking my car. I’m riding with you. Taller Winchester with Krushnic.” She opens the Impala’s passenger door and flops inside without further ado. 

Rolling his eyes and suppressing a sigh, Dean gets everything all cleared up and packed away before settling in behind the wheel. “Charles.” 

“Dean,” she replies primly. “Give me the dirt on your secret romance with Krushnic.” 

Dean nearly swallows his tongue. “What?” 

Charlie huffs. “Look, I know you’re really uncomfortable talking about romance at all, you’re allergic to it or whatever, but anyone with eyes can see you going ga-ga over Krushnic. I mean- Dean, people _without_ eyes can tell. I just thought that you could at least talk to _me_ , of all people-” she huffs again, then sniffles slightly. 

Dean’s heart drops. “Charlie-” 

“Everyone knows, Dean,” Charlie says, though there’s no malice in her tone. “Everyone knows that you straddle the fence. And no one’s ever treated you any differently. I mean- no one’s ever _said_ anything ‘cause we all know it was a sensitive topic for you. But you know…” she turns in her seat, and he risks looking away from the road to meet her gaze. “It doesn’t matter. To any of us. Even Luke and Gordon haven’t been dicks about it, even though I know they’re dying to make a gay joke to you.” 

“I…” Dean licks his suddenly dry lips. “How? How does everyone know?” 

Charlie groans, “You wouldn’t shut up about Cody Fern when he was cast as Michael Langdon.”

Dean bristles. “They styled him _incredibly_ well in _Apocalypse_ -”

“Do you hear yourself?” Charlie asks with a laugh. “‘They styled him incredibly well’? Dean. _Dean_.” 

“Jesus, alright,” Dean snaps. He pulls into the Denny’s parking lot and sighs heavily, turning off his car and resting his forehead against the steering wheel, feeling the corded leather imprinting into his forehead. “What do I do? ‘Come out’? I’m too old for that crap.” 

“No one’s too old to do it,” Charlie says kindly. She reaches out and gently pats Dean’s sweaty back, careful not to fully rest her palm on his damp t-shirt. “And like I said, pretty much everyone is waiting for you to profess your undying love to Castiel with a boombox. So all you gotta do is just… you know, confirm everyone’s suspicions. Is it really ‘coming out’ if everyone already knows?”

“When you put it like that…” Dean grumbles, then sighs again, heavier this time, sitting up in his seat. He rubs idly at where he knows there are indents in his forehead. “When? How?” 

“I don’t know,” Charlie says, now patting Dean’s thigh. “But you’ll figure it out. And if you wanna date Krushnic, you gotta figure it out.” 

“No pressure,” Dean mumbles.

“Good bestie talk!” Charlie says cheerfully, before getting out of the Impala and slamming the door.

Dean winces at the slam, then lets out a blustery sigh. Getting out of the car and grimacing at how his bare skin sticks to the leather, he shuts his door much more gently than Charlie had, patting the hood of his baby in apology. Sam and Castiel arrive next, the three of them walking into Denny’s and meeting the group at their usual crowded spot. Dean sits between Castiel and Charlie, as usual, feeling a sweat break out on his brow. Everything carries on as normal, like Charlie hadn’t pulled the rug out from under his feet and guilt tripped him into admitting he’s not as straight as he’d like people to think him to be. 

Looking around the table, Dean takes stock of everyone. The people he thinks would react the worst, he supposes, are Luke and Gordon. And Charlie had basically already cleared them, which is a bit surprising, but then again, they always manage to surprise Dean somehow. They’re assholes, sure, but they’ve got hearts behind their facade. 

Everyone orders. By the time it’s Dean’s turn he stumbles over the food that he orders literally every single time they’re here. Once that’s all said and done conversation resumes around the table. He fidgets with his napkin. Wipes the condensation off his glass. Whistles a tune under his breath. Then, he picks up his spoon to gently tap on his glass, clearing his throat as everyone at the table quiets down and looks at him.

Feeling his heart thundering in his chest, Charlie’s hand on his thigh bolsters him. 

“I’m bi.” 

Silence greets him. No one looks… surprised? In fact, quite a few people look rather unimpressed.

“We know, you idiot,” Jo finally says, rolling her eyes and dumping more creamer in her coffee.

“Huh?” Dean replies intelligently.

Gordon raises his hand, “Can I make jokes about your fivehole now?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “You already make jokes about my fivehole.”

“But can I make jokes with _gayer_ connotations about your fivehole now?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

Gordon and Luke high-five. 

Sam from across the table, grins huge. “Thank you for that lovely breakfast announcement, maiden.” 

Dean points at his brother with his butter knife, “Watch it, Samantha. I can still kick your ass.” 

“Do I gotta give Krushnic ‘the talk’?” Benny asks thoughtfully, scrutinizing Castiel while idly stroking his beard.

“ _What_?” 

“I don’t speak English,” Castiel says, picking up his ice water for a drink and looking anywhere but at Dean or Benny. If he’s surprised by the sudden turn of events, considering Dean literally just told him he’s closeted, he doesn’t show it.

“Clarence, you sure you wanna be seen with a ruffian like that?” Meg asks, arching a slick brow.  
“The other Winchester would look better on your arm.”

General chaos ensues as people either start making jokes at Dean’s expense or start talking about other completely unrelated things. Balthazar's look is unreadable as his eyes bounce between Castiel and Dean a few times, before he turns to Meg while he eats and chats. Good, Dean thinks. The last thing he wants is that pompous asshole's snarky questions that aren't even snarky, they're just plain rude. (Sometimes Dean wonders how and when Balthazar joined their group, but he figures it was probably a Meg thing)

As Dean looks around at his friends, then glances over to see Castiel smiling fondly at nothing in particular, another part of him blooms open. 

Huh. That wasn’t so bad, after all.

\--

“That was _such_ a bad idea,” Dean gripes, looking appropriately frazzled when he and Sam finally get home after a chaotic brunch. 

“Better than the alternative,” Sam says as they walk up the stairs. 

“You sure about that?” Dean starts pulling his shirt over his head before they reach the landing.

“Uh, pretty sure,” Sam says with a chuckle.

“Whatever.” 

They part ways, Sam heading into the bathroom while Dean moves into the master bedroom to lock himself into the en suite. Castiel has directions to just enter the house whenever he gets here but Dean wants to make sure he’s put together before things get to that point. Showering is quick and perfunctory, Dean debating for a moment on if he should get actually dressed… but decides against it at the last moment, figuring Castiel has sat next to him when he’s all stinky and sweaty, so he dresses in athletic pants and a loose and comfy hoodie. By the time he’s down the stairs Sam is already in the kitchen preparing the cauliflower crust, the weird smell of boiled cauliflower filling the air.

Wrinkling his nose, Dean opens the fridge for a beer. “Nasty.”

“Gotta get it done early so we can just put all the toppings on it later,” Sam says by way of explanation, not looking sorry at all about the weird smell.

“Smells like a giant fart,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he heads to the living room to start queuing up the movie. 

“You’re a giant fart,” he hears Sam mutter.

There’s a knock at the door followed by Castiel calling out “Hello”, and then the man himself enters the house. If Dean thought he looked good all sweaty in athletic clothes and pads, boy howdy, did he not know what was coming. Castiel is also dressed down in clean sweats and one of those hoodies that has short sleeves, all monochrome heather grey. The color scheme makes the colors and starkness of his tattoos stand out even more against his tan skin, his dermal piercings glinting every time he moves. He toes off his sneakers and then enters the house, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose. 

“Are you making… _kapusta_?” 

“If you mean cauliflower, yes,” Sam says with a snotty tone of voice. 

“Ah, yes,” Castiel lifts his hands so his fingers can air quote, “‘healthy’ pizza.” 

“Why don’t you two start your date already,” Sam says loudly.

Dean blushes. 

Castiel is unbothered as he moves to sit on the couch, once again choosing the long end of it. Dean sits down a little closer to him than usual, though still keeps a respectable distance between them, picking up the remote to start the movie. 

“We will finish Harry Potter before dinner?” Castiel asks. 

It takes Dean a second to properly register what Castiel’s actually asking, and then he grins. “Yep! We’ll be all done with the whole series. We can eat, then if you’re up to it we can watch something else or uh… y’know, do something other than watching a movie. If you want.” 

Sam coughs loudly.

Castiel sends Dean an amused glance. “Something other than… movie?” 

Dean’s fingers fumble over the remote buttons as he stares stubbornly at the television. “Yeah. I mean. Watching movies all day is nice but gets kinda old after a while.”

“What else we do?” 

“Days are gettin’ longer n’ warmer,” Dean shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Could strap on our rollerblades and work off dinner.”

“But dinner healthy,” Castiel says, his voice turning a bit more teasing. “No need to… work it off.”

“If you eat enough of something healthy you still get stuffed,” Dean says with an eye roll.

Castiel reaches out to pat Dean’s stomach in a way that’s probably meant to be teasing, but sends scorching flames licking up Dean’s spine at the contact. “Do not eat too much.” When Dean can’t hide his pout, Castiel chuckles and shifts, nearly bridging the gap between their shoulders. “We skate after dinner. A romantic evening… stroll.” He leaves his hand on Dean’s stomach, which means he’s angled towards Dean casually. 

Dean wants to die. 

The movie starts playing and Castiel turns his attention to the screen, but leaves his big palm resting on Dean’s lower stomach, which has started to get a little soft over the past few months due to him hitting the gym less and relaxing more in his free time. He thinks back to Castiel saying he wouldn’t mind if Dean got a little chubby- well, alright, he’d made a general statement about not caring about someone’s physical state of being, and then mentioned specifically that Dean would be cute with a little extra cushion for the pushin’- fuck, not that they’ve even talked about anything remotely physical between them, and Dean should really get his brain to calm down. 

But he’s seen the Harry Potter movies so many times he could quote them, which allows for his thoughts to wander. Which is a little dangerous to be honest. But Castiel still asks him to clarify phrases and jokes and that keeps him grounded. They make it through both movies, the credits rolling, Dean looking to Castiel hopefully. 

“Well?”

Castiel’s quiet for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his features, then nods seriously. “I like.” 

Dean chuckles. By now they’ve migrated to having their shoulders pressed together, thighs too, and Dean feels comfortable, warm, and secure with his arm draped over the back of the couch in a mockery of the way he _really_ wants to have his arm around the man next to him. “Good. ‘Cause I gotta tell you, once you experience the magic of Harry Potter, so many doors open for you to watch other things.”

Castiel turns a small smile towards Dean. “I look forward to you teaching me.” 

Their closeness has Dean blushing slightly. He clears his throat and stands up, feeling hot all over, wanting to simultaneously get away from Castiel and throw himself on his lap. Dean has zero experience with men, absolutely none whatsoever; with a girl he’d have no problem sliding close and dropping a sweet line, but with Castiel his tongue is tied and his brain gets all fuzzy.

Figures. 

Castiel’s the hottest person who’s ever graced Dean’s eyes in real life. 

And he thought Lisa Braeden was next level hot.

Phew.

Sam comes trolloping down the stairs noisily, likely to announce his presence like he’s expecting to catch them necking or something, but when he sees Dean standing already he sends him a confused glance. Dean shakes his head minutely, causing Sam to roll his eyes as he heads into the kitchen. 

“You guys ready to eat?” Sam asks.

“Ready!” Dean zooms quickly out of Castiel’s gravitational pull.

If Castiel’s bothered by Dean’s skittishness, he doesn’t comment on it or seem particularly bothered. He trails after Dean into the kitchen, settling on a stool at the island and folding his forearms on the counter. “How many crust you make?” 

“Two,” Sam says, opening the fridge. “Dean’s always been a… _meat lover_.” He can barely contain the laughter in his voice, head buried in the fridge but his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. 

Dean grabs the dish towel from the oven handle and whips Sam in the ass with it, delighting in his surprised shriek. “Shut the fuck up. You’d be vegan if you didn’t like eggs so much.”

“They’re so good,” Sam laments.

Dean stage whispers to Castiel, “His egg farts are monstrous.” 

“You’re jealous ‘cause your fragrance is weak,” Sam snipes. He pulls the crusts out of the fridge, setting them on the island. He starts picking at the saran wrap covering them, sending Castiel a beatific smile. “What do you like on your pizza, Cas?” 

“Anything,” Castiel says, a small smile on his lips from the brothers’ immature arguing. 

“That’s my man,” Dean praises heartily, opening the fridge to start pulling out ingredients to set them on the counter. The island is big enough for them all to take up one side, leaving the side with the sink open. He pulls a wooden cutting board out of a storage slot, then grabs a knife from the knife block on the counter behind him, setting about arranging ingredients.

“So, Cas,” Sam starts as he and Dean start preparing the pizzas. “We don’t really know much about you. Do you have siblings?” 

“I was only child,” Castiel says. 

“What were your parents like?” Sam continues. Dean’s not very good at small talk like this, so he’s glad Sam’s taking the wheel.

“Strict,” Castiel says with barely any emotion. “I attend private school always. Go to university, get high paying job. It was… never good enough.”

“What kinda work did you do?” Dean asks, his knife slicing through the mushrooms like butter.

“Government work,” is Castiel’s vague reply. “For long time I do what my parents ask. No questions. Then… they die. And I wonder: what now?” 

“Shit,” Dean says, eyes widening as he regards Castiel. “What did you end up doing?” 

“Move to America,” Castiel says with a small smile. “Two years ago. Start over. Never too old for that.” 

“What do you do here?” Sam’s nosy ass asks.

“I… own?” Castiel ponders if he’s saying the right word. “I own businesses. Many of the same one.”

“A chain? Which business? Anything we’d know?” Sam pulls out the can opener to start cranking open cans of tomato sauce.

Castiel’s lips flub a little as he thinks. “Do you know _Daisy Duke’s_?”

Dean stares. “The… strip club?” 

Castiel nods. “ _Da_.”

“You own…” Sam says slowly, “...strip clubs?” 

“ _Da_.” Castiel nods again. “Fourteen.” 

Dean’s eyes bug out of his head. “You own _fourteen strip clubs_!?”

Castiel seems a bit confused about Dean and Sam’s reactions. “Yes. What is wrong?”

“Wait-” Sam snaps his fingers. “I actually read an article on _Daisy Duke’s_. They’re super ethical and pay fair wages and have really tight security at the clubs while still offering an amazing customer experience.”

Now Castiel looks proud. “Clubs not safe before me. I buy, I change name, I make safe.” 

“I can’t-” Dean lets out a whuff of laughter. “Shit, man. Did _not_ expect that.” 

“I didn’t know there were fourteen of them,” Sam says, turning to the stove so he can start making the marinara sauce. “Pretty broad reach huh?”

“Local and surrounding states, yes,” Castiel confirms.

“So, like.” Dean pauses in slicing veggies, squinting at Castiel. “You followed your parent’s rules until the day they died… and then came to America and bought up fourteen stripper joints.” 

Now Castiel is beaming. “ _Da_. I wanted to make them roll over in grave.” 

Dean barks out a laugh, throwing his head back and feeling some tears gather. “Holy _shit_ , dude. Talk about rebellion!”

Sam chuckles as well. “Good job, Cas. The article was pretty unbiased but had lots of good things to say about how your business is normalizing sex work and treating its employees like kings and queens.” 

“I travel lots to make personal appearance,” Castiel says. “I want them to know my face, know I support them and have their back.” 

“Man, of all things,” Dean is still laughing intermittently as he finishes chopping the vegetables. “That’s a hoot.”

Castiel smiles serenely at the brothers as they continue setting up the pizza. It’s a comfortable quiet, the only sounds being the knife hitting the cutting board and the spoon stirring around the marinara sauce. It’s been just Sam and Dean for so long; significant others have come and gone, but it always just boils down to the pair of them. They like it like that - even if they get confused for a gay couple rather frequently at the local shops and restaurants - and it’s been a long time since anyone has slotted in so… seamlessly. The last person was Charlie. Dean thinks he should be on guard with how quickly Castiel settles into their lives, into their home and their space, but instead he just feels… elated. 

Safe.

It’s a good feeling. 

The pizzas get dressed, one veggie-only and one veggie loaded with sausage and pepperoni, and then they get shut into the oven to bake. Dean grabs some beers out of the fridge, the three of them hanging around the island as they drink and chat more. Castiel reveals that life in America has been a mixture of rough and easy; there is some prejudice against him when people hear his accent, thinking he’s some sort of thug (Castiel _also_ reveals that he fancies designer suits on the weekdays, which makes Dean understand why people would judge him, but _mostly_ makes him drool a little). Then on the flip side the people who have helped him _because_ they know he’s a transplant have a special place in his heart. 

“Well,” Dean starts with an embarrassed chuckle, “gotta admit Cas, when you walked up to the rink you looked scary as heck. You’ve got major RBF and I was sure you were gonna come up and, like, punch me or something. Complain about us being too loud or whatever.”

Castiel’s brow pinch. “What is RBF?” 

“Resting bitch face,” Sam says, hiding his smirk behind the neck of his bottle.

Castiel squints at Dean. “You think I have RBF?” 

“Have you looked in a mirror? I gotta say, man, I kinda understand where people are comin’ from when they think you’re some sort of mafia overlord or somethin’. I thought the same thing.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Very stereotypical to assume I am mafia because I am Russian and wear suits.” 

“All my Russian info comes from the John Wick movies, sssssooooo,” Dean shrugs, taking a deep drink of his beer. 

“John Wick?” Head tilt.

Sam wiggles his pinky in his ear.

Dean sets his beer down, aghast. “You don’t even know _John Wick_???????” 

Castiel looks plaintively at Dean, holding eye contact as he takes a drink of his beer. 

“Next weekend, it’s John Wick.” Dean decides. “There are only three movies so we should make good time.” 

“Dean,” Sam sets his beer down, interrupting the moment. “Winchester Surprise?” 

Rapping his knuckles on the island, Dean shoots Castiel one last suspicious look before turning around to open the fridge. “Comin’ right up. Cas, why don’t you and Sam go sit in the living room and chill? When the pizza’s done I’ll serve it and finish up Winchester Surprise.” 

“You don’t need help?” Castiel asks, just to make sure. Dean knows he has a hard time being a guest, but he needs to get used to it. That is, until Dean goes over to his place. “Why Winchester Surprise secret?” 

“Because that’s just how it is, buddy,” Dean says, lifting his hands to physically shoo his brother and friend out of the kitchen. “Even Sammy doesn’t know how I make it. So: scram. I gotta work my magic.”

Two sets of eyes roll before the men dutifully leave the kitchen area to go have a seat on the couch. The television gets turned to cable, they start making small talk about whatever, and Dean sets about making the Winchester Surprise. It’s actually pretty obvious what it is once you get to the finished product; a baked cheesecake with a graham cracker crust and a homemade huckleberry compote to go over the top. He decorates the top of it with raspberries dispersed around the edge for a pop of color, garnishes it with a mint leaf in the middle, and voila. Winchester Surprise.

The surprise is that no one ever expects that Dean can actually bake, and bake well at that. 

So he busies himself. He’s timing it so that the cheesecake can go in the oven as soon as the pizza comes out and will be done by the time they’ve finished their dinner and are all digested. He cleans up his mess and gets everything back in order just in time for the oven to beep; he grabs potholders and pulls the pizzas out to set them on the island, then moves to set the breakfast nook. 

“Alright Rose and Dorothy, come on in and eat up,” he calls. 

Sam and Castiel come into the kitchen, Sam sliding his moose body into the nook on the short side so Dean and Castiel can sit on the long side. Dean serves everyone, clearly in “housewife mode” as Sam likes to call it; Sam has a smirk on his face but Castiel is grateful and thankful as soon as they’re all served. The smell of the pizzas on the table cover up the sweet fragrance emanating from the oven, so Winchester Surprise is still a go as they dig in.

“Sam,” Castiel says, which sort of startles both the brothers, because he rarely initiates conversation. 

“Yeah?” Sam says, picking the veggies off of his pizza to eat them first. He says it’s so he can eat them while they’re still crispy, but Dean just thinks it’s a ‘things little brothers do because they’re weird’ thing. 

“Do you have lawyer firm?” 

“I practice in a firm someone else owns,” he replies, finally taking a bite of his pizza like a normal human being. 

“I am currently in need of law adviser,” Castiel says. He takes a drink of beer, then a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “I fire last one.”

“Why?” Dean asks, curious.

Castiel’s eyes narrow dangerously. Good thing his gaze is on the pizza, because Dean would rather the food be reheated than he or Sam set on fire from the intensity of it. “He touch one of my girls. So I throw him out on his ass.” 

“Proverbially, or…” 

Castiel’s gaze cuts towards Dean. “He leave with black eye and broken wrist.”

Dean’s belly swoops.

Sam chuckles a little, shifting in his seat to put his elbow on his table as he holds his beer bottle by the neck. “What kind of legal adviser? I imagine mostly for sexual harassment and defense against patrons who step out of bounds?” 

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel says with a nod. 

He and Sam get caught up talking legalese while Dean gets lost in a (minor) fantasy of Castiel wearing a pressed, fitted suit, rings on his fingers and a chain on his neck as he tosses a full grown dude out on his ass and into the parking lot while threatening him in Russian, maybe even holding him by his collar or tie, nose to nose, yelling super loud and angry and looking like some sort of vengeful, pissed off angel, getting closer and closer... 

“...ean. Dean?”

Snapping back to reality, Dean rejoins the conversation. “Huh?” 

It was him. 

Dean was the fully grown dude in the fantasy.

Sam sends him amused smile, probably knowing exactly what he was daydreaming about because little siblings are fucking annoying and also seem to be telepathic. “I was asking what you thought, big brother, about me thinking about switching jobs.” 

Shrugging, Dean shoves some pizza in his face so he can talk with his mouth full just to annoy Sam. He brought him out of a very nice daydream, afterall. “If it pays good and lines up with your morals I dunno why you shouldn’t.” 

“I think Cas and I will iron out some details,” Sam says doing his best to control his bitch face because he’s clearly trying to have an actual adult conversation, “and then we’ll figure it out.”

Dean smiles, his cheeks full of pizza and some melted cheese dripping down his chin. “Great!”

Castiel slides a napkin towards Dean. “How is your business?” 

“Ah,” Dean finishes chewing, swallowing and grabbing the napkin to mop himself up. “Pretty good, y’know. Jo almost whooped my ass in front of a customer on Wednesday but I definitely deserved it.” 

“Did you make a sexist joke about her being a mechanic again?” Sam asks with a straight face.

“ _No_ ,” Dean says snootily, “I asked her if she got a haircut. She said yeah.” Sam and Castiel stay silent for an uncomfortably long time, before Dean says, totally uncomfortable, “She said ‘yeah, two weeks ago asshole’.” 

Sam almost coughs up his beer while Castiel snorts in amusement. 

“For trying to pass off as straight for most of your life, you realize that you actually suck at talking to women?” Now Sam is stuffing a slice of pizza in his gullet, smiling wickedly. 

“I do not!” Dean argues. “I just don’t know why it’s so important to notice when someone gets bangs!” 

“Maybe because Jo _didn’t_ have bangs two weeks go?” Sam hazards, still smiling like a little brat. 

“Why _should_ I notice those things?” Dean huffs.

“Not only you didn’t compliment her,” Castiel pipes in, the bastard, “but you knew bangs. You know what compliment to give, you merely choose not to.” He takes a sip of his beer. “That is why she is mad.” 

Dean clenches his jaw. Sam tries (and fails) to hold back his laughter. Castiel calmly picks up another slice of pizza, pretending like he’s not a hot, glorious dick. 

Hot glorious dick. 

Castiel’s hot… glorious… 

“--ean-- DEAN!” 

This time Dean physically startles when Sam yells, looking like a deer caught in headlights as he swivels his eyes between Sam and Castiel. “WHAT.” 

“The oven’s going off,” Sam says, still a bit louder than necessary.

Taking it as an out, Dean gets up without further ado to head back into the kitchen and busy himself with cleaning up the pizza mess, turning off the oven so the cake can rest a bit. Sam and Castiel bring their dishes, Dean shoos them out again, wondering if they’ll start talking more about Sam joining Castiel’s team. Honestly, it’s right up Sam’s alley. Hell, he’s already read articles about Castiel’s businesses and seems to be on board. If Castiel can pay him good money, Dean’ll bet that he’ll take the job. 

Now that the kitchen is clean, Dean takes the cake out of the oven and rests it on the warm stove. He pulls out a bag of frozen huckleberries, dumping all of the contents into a pot and turning on a burner. He gets vanilla and honey, stirs the huckleberries until they start melting, then mixes everything together. He pulls out the raspberries to rest on the counter, humming Metallica to himself as he works through everything. The cake comes beautifully out of the springform pan, not a crack in sight, the graham cracker crust in beautiful shape. They managed to bullshit long enough at the table for the cake to cook completely through. Digging through his cupboards he finds one of his mom’s old cake plates and matching cloche, rinsing them off and drying them before setting them on the island. 

If hockey is how he releases all his tension from the week, baking is how Dean finds zen in the chaos. 

He’s focused on pouring the compote onto the cake where it sits prettily on his mom’s china, using a rubber spatula to make sure it spreads evenly. Some of the purple liquid spills over the sides beautifully, though most of the compote fits in the heavenly dip of the cheesecake. He washes his hands and grabs the raspberries, bending over with a plastic ruler so he can start dispersing them evenly around the edges of the cake. Once that’s done he pulls a cluster of mint leaves out of the fridge, rinses them off, then chooses the best one to go in the middle of the cake. 

All done, he pats himself mentally on the back before covering the dish with the cloche. The glass is frosty with cherry blossom branches sprawling across the curves elegantly, matching the plate the cake is currently sitting on. He washes his hands, cleans everything up, then calls the boys back in to partake in his beautiful creation. 

“Alright,” he says bright as they enter. “Hope dinner’s digested!” 

Sam and Castiel sit on the stools at the island, Sam looking quite excited whereas Castiel looks incredibly curious. Dean has a stack of dessert plates next to him and a knife in one hand, grinning like an idiot as he gestures grandly to the enclosed treat. 

“Behold…” he says dramatically, grabbing the little handle of the cloche. “...The Winchester Surprise!” He pulls off the cloche, revealing the beautifully crafted cheesecake beneath.

Sam golf claps. 

Castiel smiles, surprised and amused. “I did not know you could bake.”

“Surprise!” Dean says.

Castiel clearly gets the joke, because he lets out a fond chuckle, lifting his hands to assist in Sam’s golf clapping. Satisfied, Dean cuts the cake and serves three pieces, the cheesecake soaked through and a beautiful lilac color from the huckleberry compote sitting on top. He makes sure everyone gets one raspberry, then puts the cloche back on the dish so he can lean on the island as he greedily takes a big bite and moans. 

Sam and Castiel also dig in, though a bit less enthusiastically. They’re still smiling, however, which Dean counts as a win. 

After a few minutes of their forks clinking and scraping, Castiel speaks up. 

“I want to thank you for opening your home to me,” he says earnestly, looking between the brothers. “You show great hospitality. I want to return favor.” 

“Wanna play host?” Dean asks, his heart flipping over in his chest.

“Yes,” Castiel says with a small nod. “My turn to show you what I can do.” 

“No disrespect,” Sam says, licking his lips free of purple juice, “but I think I’ll pass and let you two, uh… have some personal time together.” 

Dean glares directly into Sam’s soul, hoping he can feel the jagged edges stabbing him repeatedly.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks, though he doesn’t sound too surprised or put out that Sam is declining his invitation. 

“Hundred percent,” Sam says with a wry grin. 

“Then next weekend,” Castiel says, turning towards Dean with a small, almost shy smile. “We watch John Wick at my home.” 

Dean wants to jump through the window and run screaming through the neighborhood so, naturally, he replies, “Awesome.”

“Weren’t you guys gonna go on a moonlight stroll or whatever?” Sam asks, bunny-nibbling on the raspberry in his mouth, his stupid eyes all big and innocent.

Dean cuts him a glare but before he can say something snarky Castiel replies, “ _Da_. Thank you for cheesecake, Dean. It was very delicious. I will get my skates.” 

Wow. What a diffuser. Dean’s actually got a bit of whiplash from the rubber band. Castiel gets up and takes his dish to the sink, rinsing it and his fork neatly before putting them in the dishwasher; when he passes by Dean he speaks lowly while Sam noisily starts getting off his stool. 

“You look good angry, but not at your brother.” 

Dean’s not sure why those words make him tingle, his head whipping to catch sight of Castiel’s smirk as he saunters out of the kitchen towards the front door. Staring after him, mildly confused and vaguely aroused, he misses Sam throwing a raspberry at him and flinches when it makes contact with his cheek. 

“Hey Henriette.” 

This time turning on his glare full force, Dean cranes his neck towards Sam, then immediately blinks away his nasty look when he sees a bit of a dopey expression on his brother’s features. “Go on your skate. I’ll clean up.” 

Darting his gaze around the kitchen, taking in all the mess, he knows that Sam isn’t ever a butthead about helping clean up, but... really? Dean can just… leave? And not worry about anything? Hedging towards the edge of the kitchen like Sam’s a lion that’ll spring at any second, Dean nods. “Yeah. Yeah I’ll uh… Go do that.” 

As he turns around to leave Sam calls after him, “Don’t forget to grab a spare coat for Cas!” 

Ten minutes later he and Castiel are laced up on the front porch, Castiel wearing Dean’s sturdy Carhartt coat and looking rather smug. Dean’s cozy in his leather jacket, but honestly he’s kinda sweating a bit because skating around each other in the rink is one thing but… a leisurely stroll? Just the two of them? On a balls ass cold night with no clouds and low humidity? This is different, right? Surely. Totally. Hundred percent. 

Castiel walks down the steps to get on the walkway, turning up expectantly towards Dean. He’s got a half smile on his lips, his eyes as dark as the sky, his hand making a ‘come hither’ motion. Smiling a bit awkwardly Dean joins him, their shoulders brushing briefly before they make their way to the street to start rolling down. 

The neighborhood is up and coming, but fairly nice. 

“Could really turn into a nice suburbia one day if the houses get all bought up and restored.” Dean says as Castiel eyes all of the ‘for sale’ signs curiously. 

“It is nice neighborhood like this,” Castiel compliments honestly. Dean’s sure the guy doesn’t have a dishonest bone in his body. 

They continue along in silence. There’s a park on the next block that they can take a slow skate around, then take the long way back home on a trail; though Dean will have to warn Castiel about stray rocks and branches. The moonlight is super bright, though, so he thinks they’ll be able to see just fine. 

The silence isn’t awkward, but Dean’s so… _curious_. Castiel has shed little light on himself and his background and, hell, even his job. He knows a lot about Sam and him because all they do is talk about their lives, like it’s easy to do when you’re with someone nearly twenty-four-seven. Castiel is a quiet observer and could probably write a freaking book on everyone in their friend group.

Yet here Dean is, wanting to date the guy just off of the few things he knows about him and, well…

He sneaks a glance. Castiel’s tan skin is pale in the moonlight, cheekbones highlighted and eyes reflecting the stars. He looks relaxed, swimming in Dean’s winter coat, gliding blissfully along, like doesn’t have a damn care in the world. 

Dean, like a child, has to disrupt the peace. 

“So how’d you get ahold of the stripper joints?” 

Chuckling, Castiel nods idly. “My brother-” Dean _loves_ the way he says ‘brother’. With the B soft and the R rolled and his O like an A and the ‘ _ther_ ’ just sort of… falling away without much sound. “-is in the…” he thinks for a moment. “Adult film business. He learn of _Daisy Duke’s_ and ask for my help.” 

“Wait-” something clicks in Dean’s brain. “You said you don’t have any brothers?” 

“Gabriel is cousin,” Castiel nods again, then rolls his eyes. “But he say he is only family I have, so he take brother title.”

“Huh.” Dean nods, then grins. “So he makes porn?” 

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel says with a bit of pain. “He is actually very famous here in America. But,” he waves a hand. “That does not matter. He tell me business need help, tell me people need my help, and I agree. Very good timing.” 

“Did he set that up for you before or after you got here?” 

“After. I was here for three month before Gabriel get sick of me…” he squints off into the distance, then lifts his hands for finger quotes, “‘moping’.” 

“Bein’ without work gets rough when you’re so used to it,” Dean agrees.

Castiel sends him a small smile, though there’s a sad secret in his eyes he won’t say out loud. “You are very admirable man, Dean.” 

Flushing hotly, Dean averts his gaze to look off into the lush forest surrounding their trail. “I mean- I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck idly, then blows out a small breath. “So… you can tell me to shut up if I get too nosy, ok? I just wanna know more about you. And I don’t- I don’t wanna offend or overstep any boundaries or whatever.” 

“No worry, Dean,” Castiel assures him. “I have no one to talk to for long time. Being with you and Sam, and everyone on Saturdays…” Now the small smile he sends Dean is fond. “I’m happy.” 

“You weren’t happy back home?” Dean hazards, then lets out a blustery sigh, lips raspberrying. “That’s kind of a dumb question. No offense but from what I know about Russia it probably wasn’t flowers and daisies huh? And you said you didn’t like your job.” 

“I had rough times,” Castiel admits. “But I am here now. I don’t like to think about Russia. My home,” his knuckles brush across the back of Dean’s, “is here.” 

Dean lets out a giddy giggle before he can pull it back in. Clearing his throat, he gets brave enough to hook their pinkies, but the second he feels the warmth of the other man’s fingers, his mouth just starts letting out some of the bullshit trapped in his brain. “Y’know, I uh. I just came out n’ all, and you’re a cool guy and… like, there’s a lot of baggage that comes with me in general and me bein’ ‘freshly out’ or whatever Charlie calls it ain’t gonna be a picnic and I understand if-”

“Dean.” Castiel stops skating, his grip tightening on Dean’s pinky to get him to stop and swivel on his wheels to face him. There’s a small smile on his lips, but his eyes are worried. “Everyone have baggage. Big and small. That doesn’t mean... “ he licks his chapped, pink lips, clearly thinking hard about how to express himself. “...we have to be scared. Baggage heavy. So, make big jump anyway.” 

“Pretty sure my baggage is gonna just make me topple over, not jump,” Dean grouses. 

Castiel chuckles, low and throaty. “We all think our baggage worst before hearing other stories. Baggage much lighter when shared, no?” 

Dean squints. “Stop being so… reasonable.” 

That makes Castiel let out a more startled, genuine laugh. “Should I apologize?” 

Their fingers still hooked together, the smell of damp, lush earth around them, Dean thinks yeah, it’s cold as balls, and yeah, this thing - whatever it is- between them is terrifying but… 

“Don’t ever change, man.” 

It also feels… right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gordon and lucifer won't be the """villains""" in this story. they're asshole idiots, but they're loyal asshole idiots. everyone that goes to the rink on saturdays has something they're escaping from, and they're all doing it together. there will be a """villain""" type character, though, just to shake things up a bit 🥴  
> thanks to everyone leaving comments and kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how this chapter got up to 10k but... here we are!  
> russian info provided by my dearest alyonachka and her patience for all of my dumbass questions.  
> typos are all mine, i'd thank you to just glaze past them 🥴

It’s the work week from hell. Jo is sick, Benny is sick, and it’s a small business - literally - so Dean and Garth are pulling up all the dead weight. They change oil, rotate tires, fix suspensions, placate irritated customers, skip lunch breaks only for Charlie to start bringing them meals from her bakery every day…

It’s exhausting, but stress like this is what Dean lives for sometimes. If he’s busy he’s not thinking and if he's not thinking he's not yelling about something or other. He spent a lot of time as a kid with his dad telling him to get his head out of the clouds and now that he's grown and has a business to take care of, he does his best to keep his nose to the grindstone. 

It's exactly what makes Saturday hockey games so important to him. It's his chance to blow off steam, lose the built up testosterone from the week, and enter a different kind of headspace. In the rink he's captain, he's in control, and he's got everyone he needs and only everyone he needs. At the auto shop he's got his reliable crew, but customers are the variable that he absolutely loathes sometimes. 

Plays he can handle. Competition he can handle.

Betty asking why it costs eight hundred dollars to repair a brake light on her BMW when she refuses to take it to the dealership is _not_ something he can handle. Explaining that it's the part she’s paying for because she has a fucking import, also hey, her car is a computer and aside from Dean and Benny no one else is certified to work on it, and import cars are bullshit when people can't afford to maintain basic maintenance on them so why did you let your husband buy you a car for _your_ midlife crisis, Betty--

Well.

It’s like dropping a match down a hot mineshaft.

Which means Benny usually handles Betty while Dean goes into his office to scream into his Nicolas Cage throw pillow.

By the time Friday night rolls around Dean's done for. He comes home, grunts a greeting to Sam, then collapses face down on his bed to fall into blissful, dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up he feels like a Disney princess. His window is cracked, a warm spring breeze rustles his blackout curtains, there's a bird singing in the tree next to the house… he sits up slowly, though because he's still in his mid thirties and has been working himself to death. Getting up to shower is what he looks forward to the most every day so he does just that, taking his time. His hand slides down his chest as he washes, down to his groin…

He stares at his half hard cock.

Now- he could ignore it. It's not a full woody, so it wouldn't even hurt to just pass it by.

But… he wonders.

He's never purposely jacked it to a dude before. Should he try? Now that he's 'out'? Maybe.

He thinks about it more as he washes.

His cock finally stiffens when he thinks about Castiel. Which is perfectly normal, he thinks, even if it's like, the first time it's happened intentionally, because the accidental boners he gets in the rink when Castiel is being all alpha male don't count. Most of it is testosterone anyway, he's only human. But he's also thirty-seven so random boners don't last that long anyhow. 

...Ahem.

His dick is hard, he’s purposely thinking about Castiel, but he pauses. Would it be… ok to masturbate while thinking of him? Is that crossing a line? What he dont know won't hurt him, right? Not like Dean can switch gears and think about Harrison Ford. Not when he knows how Cas smells after a game while he shucks his pads, musky with sweat and whatever expensive body wash he probably uses. Not when he knows how Castiel's fingers feel against his, or how his firm body feels even just in passing, since they haven't even really, like, cuddled. 

Is Dean Winchester maintaining an erection while thinking about _cuddles_? 

Man. He _is_ old. And apparently a fucking weenie.

His brain is too busy for this. He finishes washing his hair and body, gets out, and begins the task of minor pampering. When he puts on shorts (shorts! At the end of March in Everett! Amazing) and a shirt and heads downstairs, he nearly falls on his face when he sees Castiel sitting with Sam in the breakfast nook. He has a coffee and a store bought scone in front of him, an amused smile on his lips and a single brow arched as Dean bumps into the entryway with his shoulder clumsily. 

"Cas!" Dean greets a little too loudly. 

"You did not answer your phone, so I call Sam. Sam say you left your phone at work." Castiel points to Dean's phone where it lay on the island. "So I come over." His gaze roves over Dean's body.

Suddenly he's aware that he wasn't fully dry when he dressed and his shirt is sticking to his back and tummy awkwardly. He pinches the material of his red shirt, flapping it some, but that just kind of makes it worse, so he slips further into the kitchen to hide on the other side of the island like an idiot.

" _Good morning_ ," Sam says brightly and pointedly.

"Good morning," Dean finally greets, sounding more like a bullfrog getting stepped on than a human trying to communicate. 

Castiel doesn't bother hiding his smirk, his gaze way too intense for seven a.m. on a Saturday. " _Dobroye utro_ , Dean. Sleep well?"

"Mmhmm," Dean squeaks out, spinning on his heel to start fumbling with the coffee maker.

"Dean."

Dean's shoulders flinch up to his ears. He turns his head, looking meekly over at Castiel, who is holding up a to-go cup of steaming coffee.

"Sam say you drink black."

Sliding on socked feet without lifting his toes off the wood floor, Dean slinks towards the table. He sits next to Castiel because Sam is lounging messily on the other side. Castiel puts the coffee in front of Dean, presses against his shoulder, then leans in to murmur in his ear.

"I heard you have rough week. Allow me to relax you." His hand drops to Dean's thigh.

Dean's knee rockets up to smack against the bottom of the table, Castiel’s and Sam's quick reflexes keeping their coffees from spilling. He laughs loudly and awkwardly, trying to settle, then takes his coffee.

"Thank… uh, thanks, Cas. M'just feelin a little off is all."

Castiels hand, still on his fucking thigh, _squeezes_. "Feel fine to me."

Dean burns his tongue on his coffee.

"Garth said you had a rough week,” Sam says, either oblivious or in on what's clearly a ruse to get Dean feeling as flustered and awkward as possible. 

"Jo n' Benny are out," Dean says, clearing his throat. "Won't be at the game today either."

"Oh," of all things, Castiel _brightens_. "We do practice drill?"

"Like…?"

Sam leans forward excitedly. "NHL drills?" 

" _Da_. Russian ones," Castiel grins.

"Cas, you gotta tell us your hockey backstory," Dean pleads.

Castiel shrugs. "Not much to tell. Trained for professional hockey when I was young. Played one game. Kicked off team. Then, government work."

"Why’d you get kicked off?" Dean asks, frowning.

For a moment Castiel looks confused, before something seems to dawn in his eyes, his brow drawing tight. Apparently he hadn't meant to say that part. He shakes his head, dropping his gaze to his coffee, eyes dark and smile tight as his entire demeanor changes whip-quick. "Story for different time."

Sensing Castiel's introverted nature closing in, Dean lets up and nods, hiding his pout in his coffee. He's not upset about Castiel not dishing- he's mad that he said something to cause him to close off. Not that he knew, but still. 

A tense silence holds the table for a moment before Sam speaks up. "Rain's in the forecast today." Jesus Christ. Leave it to Sam to bring up the weather to break the ice.

"We live in Washington," Dean says smartly, "when is rain _not_ in a spring forecast. Or summer. Or fall. Or winter."

Sam wrinkles his nose at him. "Just saying. We'll probably have enough time to do some drills at the rink but then we'll have to leave quick before we get rained out."

"We could also… not play hockey today?" Dean suggests.

Sam arches a brow. Dean hasn't canceled a hockey meetup in, well, ever. Dean jerks his chin towards Castiel tightly, realization sparks in Sam's eyes, and then they're working together.

"Why don't we just do breakfast?" Sam readily says. "Still get the gang together but take a break. Since Benny and Jo are out some other people might not be feeling too good either."

"Yeah, we’re too old to not take breaks when we’re within six inches of yuck," Dean nods sagely. 

"You mean _you’re_ too old," Sam says snottily. 

Dean glares, slurping loudly on his coffee.

"Dean," Castiel shifts. He withdraws his hand from Dean’s thigh. "I don't want breakfast."

"Oh," Dean immediately deflates. "Ok, man. That's ok."

Those pretty blue eyes look at Dean searchingly. "We start movies early today?"

Dean's smile returns automatically. "Wanna spend a rainy day cuddling on the couch, tough guy?"

Castiel finally smiles, a small little thing that warms Dean inside out. "I would like that."

"You two aren't even dating and I'm nauseous," Sam says into his croissant. 

"Y'know people can go into a relationship without asking sissy questions like 'will you be my boyfriend', right?" Dean snaps.

"Don't use 'sissy' like that," Sam replies primly. Damn him correcting Dean's vocabulary. He knows he deserves it though. Bless his brother for keeping him PC or else Dean would get his ass handed to him. "And yeah, Dean. We’re big kids. Congrats I guess.” 

Dean’s _very_ tempted to throw his coffee in Sam’s lap, but refrains. It was super sweet of Castiel to bring them coffee and treats so early in the morning. Dean’s not sure why, but Castiel getting ahold of Sam when he couldn’t catch Dean is… well, it feels pretty damn good. And then he just took the initiative to come over, and hell, he let Dean sleep in! Kinda. As much as he can sleep in on any given day, his body tuned into the seven a.m frequency even on the weekends. Anyway, he left Dean alone and was perfectly fine hanging out with Sam and… damn. Damn damn damn. That feels good. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, finally drinking his coffee. Oh, sweet nectar. “Don’t throw too big of a rager while I’m gone, kiddo.” 

Sam dramatically turns off his phone screen and puts it face down on the table, rolling his eyes hugely and slumping back in his bench. “Gee, dad, take all the fun out of a weekend to myself.” 

Dean squints. “I’ll just be gone for the day.” 

Sam smirks. “You don’t wanna pack your sleeping bag?”

Dean squints harder.

“You know, so you can have a slumber party and play spin the bottle.” Sam’s smirk curls his lips so sadistically the Grinch would be jealous. 

“Ah,” Castiel pipes up, his voice perking up slightly. “You are welcome to stay, Dean, if it gets late.” 

Dean glares at them both, grumbling. "I gotta separate you two."

“Seriously,” Sam stands up, taking his coffee with him and sending Dean what’s probably supposed to pass as a “concerned brother” look. “Take some time off.” 

Muttering into his coffee, Dean makes a mildly agreeable noise. Sam leaves, Dean’s eyes trying to stab invisible daggers into his back, and then he turns towards Castiel, offering a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. S’probably a lot to handle first thing in the morning.”

Castiel shrugs a little. “I’ve said before: I like being around you and Sam. Make me feel… normal.” 

Dean’s eyes soften and his heart melts. “A’right. D’you mind if I stay the night? S’that gonna intrude on anything?” 

Shaking his head, Castiel bumps their shoulders softly. “No, Dean. Pack bag.” 

In a fit of bravery Dean leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel’s stubbly cheek like a wimpy little girl. Or- wimpy little boy. Wimpy… little kid. Yeah. Pulling away before he can see Castiel’s face, Dean leaves his coffee and darts out of the booth to leave the kitchen, heading up the stairs. The shower is running, so Dean shoots Sam a text that simply reads “thx”, before he starts rifling around to pack a bag. He leaves his shorts and shirt on for now, packing pajama pants, lounge pants, two extra shirts and a sweater. Oh- can’t forget the extra underwear! And socks. Socks…

When’s the last time he stayed over at someone’s house? Someone… _more_ than a friend? Probably Lisa, he thinks. But their relationship was a bit more physical than emotional. Also she’s a woman. He’s never stayed over at a dude’s house before. (Benny doesn’t count; Dean falling asleep ass up and mouth open to snore loud enough to wake the dead after getting drunk and playing Mortal Combat doesn’t count) What kind of etiquette is required? _Is_ there etiquette? 

The shower turns off. On socked feet Dean stealthily moves towards Sam’s room, sneaking in through the cracked door.

Sam’s barely into his boxers, sending Dean a rather unimpressed look. “What are you panicking about _now_?” 

“Shhh-” Dean flaps a hand, turning the knob on the door so the door shuts quietly. He then turns to Sam, eyes wide and brows drawn. “What the fuck do two dudes do at a sleepover?” 

Sam stares at him flat for ten whole seconds, before letting out a noisy breath and moving to his dresser to start looking for clothes. “I don’t know, Dean. What do you do with Benny? Or me when we stay up late?”

“This isn’t-” Dean cuts off a whine. “You guys are _brothers_ to me. Cas ain’t that. Cas is-” Dean makes a weird gesture with both hands, interlacing his fingers briefly and putting his palms together before pulling them apart. 

“Gross,” Sam snickers. 

“C’mon, man, I don’t know what to do! I’ve never-” his voice drops to a hiss. “You know I’ve never been with a dude.”

“Actually I didn’t know that,” Sam shrugs. “I thought you were just closeted ‘cause you didn’t want anytone to know.” He turns an absolutely evil smile towards Dean as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. “I didn’t know you’re a butt virgin.” 

Dean throws himself onto Sam’s bed so he can scream into his pillow.

Sam manages to have some pity, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and patting Dean’s back between the shoulder blades. “It can’t be much different than when you’d stay the night with girls you’re into.”

“But Cas is-” Dean turns his head to throw puppy eyes up at his brother, his cheek smushed on the pillow, causing his lips to purse and distort his words slightly. “He’s _different_.” 

“‘Cause he’s not easy?” Sam hazards, a warning a flash in his eyes. 

“ _No_ \- Jesus.” Dean huffs, closing his eyes. “I never felt like this with a girl before. I’ve never felt like this _ever_. Am I in love? Is he ‘the one’? I’m ok with sleeping over at his house and not… you know.” He flaps his hand again, then looks up at Sam. “Like- I’m cool with even crashing on the couch. Alone. His mood clearly dropped at breakfast and I just… I wanna make him feel better. Don’t want anythin’ else.” 

His brother’s entire demeanor melts. Even the hand on Dean’s back turns more brotherly and gentle. “Dean. Go with your gut. Don’t be scared. You’re right- Cas _is_ different. Instead of freaking out about it, just let things happen. I have a feeling he’ll take care of you. And judging by all of this whining, you’ll take care of him, too. You just have to take all of the doubt out of it.”

Dean’s eyes tear up a little. “Sam.” 

Standing up, Sam puts distance between them. “Ok. Enough brotherly bonding. Your boyfriend is downstairs probably wondering why it’s taken over ten minutes for you to pack a bag.”

Sluggishly, Dean rolls onto his back, then sits upright. He scrubs his face with a hand, then scoots off the end of Sam’s monstrous bed. “You’re right.” Before he leaves, he sends Sam a small, tender smile. “Thanks, Sammy.” 

Sam responds by throwing a pillow at his head. “Now leave me alone for twenty-four hours straight.” 

Dean snickers, shutting the door behind him. 

“DON’T EVEN TEXT ME!”

Downstairs in the kitchen, Castiel is holding his coffee with both hands, looking out of the window next to the breakfast nook at the backyard and the grey, stormy clouds overhead. Slinging his back over his shoulder, Dean clears his throat softly. 

“You ‘bout ready?” 

Castiel’s entire expression changes as he looks at Dean, providing all the sunshine they need on this gloomy day. “ _Da_.” 

Suddenly Dean doesn’t have a care in the world.

\--

Dean immediately panics when he pulls up to Castiel’s home. He’d followed his Nissan Leaf up to the curb of his house - or, rather, his single-family townhome that looks like it costs some number of money that Dean can’t even fathom. It’s two storeys with lots of windows, the lawn manicured and lush. Peeking around the neighborhood as he gets out of his car, Dean can see the _water_ in the near distance. Adjusting his duffel bag in his grip, he heads up the walkway to where Castiel is waiting for him on the front steps, offering a small, shaky smile.

“Nice digs.” 

Castiel frowns.

“Uh- like… nice place. You got a good view of the _Possession_.” 

“Oh-” Castiel nods, smiling off towards the water. “Five minute ride to boat.”

“Like…” Dean shifts on his feet. “Boats? Or- _your_ boat?”

“My boat,” Castiel says, turning to unlock his front door.

Dean’s smile is frozen on his face. “You have a boat.”

“Yacht,” Castiel says. He steps inside his house. 

“ _Nyet_?” 

“No- _yacht_. Big boat.”

Dean follows on wobbly knees. “Oh.” 

“When summer come we go for ride,” Castiel continues, taking off his shoes and putting them in a cubby with multiple empty cubicles. “Do you like boats?” 

“Love ‘em,” Dean says, regaining some of his motor functions. He toes off his sneakers and puts them in the cubby, feeling a little off-kilter. Every time they get together, Dean learns something new that blows his mind. 

“My yacht is big enough to fit everyone.” Castiel bypasses the steps to head onto the main floor. Dean follows with his duffel bag, glancing around. HGTV would _love_ to take a tour of this home. It’s simple, modern with sleek lines, lots of natural light from the windows and every surface occupied with what’s probably a live plant. It smells fragrant, but not too fragrant, likely a result of the blooms scattered around the area. “We all go for ride on first beautiful day.” 

“I think the gang would really like that,” Dean says. 

“Let me take your bag,” Castiel says, holding out his hand. Dean dumbly hands it over, still trying to wrap his brain around everything. “I’ll take to bedroom. Please, make yourself comfortable.” 

When Castiel’s gone, Dean makes quick work of walking every square foot of the main floor. Gourmet kitchen with an eat-in space, half bath under the stairs, dining table that seats eight separating the living room from the kitchen, clear of dishes and set instead with baskets of beautiful flowers, living area with what looks like the most comfortable couch on earth, a TV mounted on the wall... 

“The movies are in my bag!” He remembers to yell.

Suddenly realizing that Castiel took his bag _upstairs_ , where the bedrooms obviously are, Dean starts to sweat a little. This place surely has more than one bedroom. Did Castiel put his duffel in the spare? Or is it in Castiel’s neat and pristine room, taking up space in the corner or maybe even on a dresser, or maybe even on the foot of his bed, looking out of place all rugged and worn from years and years of use, Dean’s practical personality clashing with Castiel’s HGTV skills? Dean desperately wants to know what it’d look like when they share a space. Castiel’s clothes are probably folded neatly in his dresser, or- or- he mentioned he wears suits, so those are definitely hanging up, probably even in plastic bags. Meanwhile Dean just kinda… throws his clean clothes wherever, though he does have a few nicer items hung in his closet. And he keeps things clean, yeah, but like- sort of a disorganized clean. People who go into his personal space (bedroom) typically have no idea where he keeps things, an organized chaos. And people who go into his _personal space_ (bathroom) have no problem commenting on his skincare items displayed prettily on the shelves, or the big ass bathtub with jets, or-

“Dean?” 

Castiel’s voice jolts Dean out of his weird daydreams. Without noticing he’s sat himself on the couch, sinking into the leather and inhaling the scent of the knitted blanket on the back. 

He’s… comfortable, he realizes. 

Physically, at least. 

“These?” Castiel holds up the John Wick Blu-Rays, which Dean nods at. “Good.” He moves over towards where the TV is. The bookshelf underneath hides a Playstation in the cupboard, impressing Dean not only with its stealth but also impressing him with the fact that Castiel even _has_ a Playstation. Castiel turns on the TV, then the Playstation, loads the movie, then reaches up to grip either side of the television gently to bring it out of the wall and angle it _perfectly_ towards the couch.

“I can’t believe we’ve been watching movies at my place the whole time,” Dean whines. 

Castiel joins him on the couch. His coffee table lifts, the surface pulling away from what looks like a bunch of cubbies on the bottom. Instead of accessing the cubbies via door, lifting the lid of the table away showcases divided storage sections beneath. Here Castiel has more books and DVDs, as well as his Playstation controller. Dean’s fairly envious. Castiel’s home clearly is up there in bucks, but since it’s a townhouse, it’s a little narrow and doesn’t offer much in storage that you don’t have to haul in.

Castiel’s a freaking genius. 

“Also can’t believe that you have this setup and are still so limited on pop culture,” Dean chuckles. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I told you why I don’t watch many movies or TV.” 

Shifting a little, Dean nudges his knee against Castiel’s affectionately. “Hey, I’m glad to be the one to show you the light.” 

Lips quirking in the tiniest smile, Castiel queues up the movie, then shuts the coffee table and puts the controller on the surface. He leans back against the couch, drapes an arm over Dean, then pulls him into his side firmly and snugly. Dean’s heart nearly chokes him to death- he clears his throat then adjusts his position, leaning at a better angle, the top of his head in the crook of Castiel’s neck. He doesn’t know what to do with his hand closest to Castiel until Castiel takes it, lacing their fingers and resting their hands on his thigh. 

Ah. 

Good.

Yes.

Cuddling.

Survivable.

\--

Dean’s dying. 

Somehow he and Castiel, halfway through the movie, have ended up horizontal on the couch. Castiel is smushed into the cushions with Dean lying atop him, arms wrapped around each other, heads turned towards the TV. Dean’s ear is pressed against Castiel’s chest, the steady _bu-bump_ of his heart lulling him and exciting him all at once. His arms are strong and solid, where they hold Dean to him; he’s not squeezing him, just resting his arms, but the weight of them is better than a gravity blanket. Dean might have a bigger frame than him, but Castiel is _stacked_.

Once again, Dean could quote these movies. So: his mind wanders. He’s trying to parse out the differences between Street Hockey Castiel and At Home Castiel. They’re basically two different people.

In the rink Castiel is a beast, single-minded and so focused his eyes could shoot lasers. At home Castiel is soft and sweet, tender almost. 

In the rink Dean’s not sure if he wants to pee his pants in fear or pop a boner from white-hot arousal. At home Dean’s one-hundred percent sure he could just sniff the cologne off of Castiel’s neck and pass out in contentment.

It’s strange.

Intriguing and hot and all things good… but strange. He wonders if Castiel knows he has such dual personalities. 

Probably. 

But, he’s a sucker for when Castiel acts like a huge dick.

Huge dick.

Huge- 

“All of this because his dog died,” Castiel's rough voice brings Dean out of his stupor. “I would be mad, too.”

“You like dogs?” Dean asks. He slurps up some drool threatening to escape his mouth. 

“I like all animals.”

“M’allergic to cats,” Dean admits, “but I think they’re awesome.”

Castiel squeezes his frame gently. “Sad.” 

Dean chuckles. “Yeah.”

The credits roll on the screen. Hating everything about life in the moment Dean sits up and pulls away from Castiel, their legs doing a weird dance to untangle before he manages to sit on the opposite end of the couch. He stretches his arms over his head, winces when both shoulders crack, then flops his hands into his lap with a satisfied sigh. Castiel sits up as well, idly rubbing his neck; they’re probably definitely both way too old to be cuddling in such weird positions for so long.

The doorbell rings.

Dean blinks.

Castiel lets out an annoyed sigh.

“You uh…” Dean chews his lip, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “...expecting someone?”

“I never expect him, yet he think I do,” Castiel nearly growls. It sends shivers down Dean’s spine. 

He watches curiously over the back of the couch as Castiel heads to the front door- and when it swings open, Dean’s jaw drops.

“Zar,” Castiel greets Balthazar. “Such surprise.” He doesn’t sound surprised at all.

Balthazar looks absolutely _jovial_ , rocking on his heels and peering over Castiel’s shoulder. “I _thought_ I heard Dean’s climate changer out there.” He makes eye contact with Dean. “Good to know you’re playing hooky from hockey today.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “People are sick and the weather sucks.”

“Dean Winchester has _never_ canceled a hockey day,” Balthazar continues, returning his attention to Castiel.

Dean can’t see Castiel’s face, but he can hear the annoyance in his face when he says, “What is your annoying reason for ringing my doorbell today?” 

“Just making conversation...” Balthazar shrugs, catching Dean’s eye again, “...with my handsome neighbor.” 

Dean wants to barf. Balthazar’s smarmy accent makes him slimy on its own but coupled with the way he’s clearly oozing over Castiel can’t even raise any of Dean’s hackles. The guy’s not competition. He’s a joke. Besides, Castiel is very clearly not into Balthazar, which has a little bit of glee flipping Dean’s tummy this way and that. 

“As you can see,” Castiel’s voice darkens a bit, “I am busy.” He starts to close the door. “Do not come back.” 

Balthazar opens his mouth to say something but gets cut off when Castiel slams the door in his face. 

Dean stands when he sees the stormy expression on his boyfriend’s expression. “Hey- you ok? I didn’t know you two were neighbors.” 

“He move four doors down two weeks ago,” Castiel says, sounding tired. He rubs a hand over his face, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "He bring me casserole like American sitcom. Am I not the one to bring to new neighbor?"

"He's clearly just being a jackass," Dean says, stepping forward to pull Castiel's hands away from his face, squeezing his wrists gently. "He's like that. Don't let him get to you.” Rubbing the soft undersides of Castiel’s thick wrists, Dean chews his lip before saying, “Does he… come over often?” 

“Never inside,” Castiel says with a sigh. “He’s good for hockey. Not company.” 

Chuckling a little and feeling oddly relieved, Dean musters up the courage to bring Castiel towards him for a tight, reassuring hug. “I agree.” A part of Dean, however, is mildly insecure about the whole thing. This is the first guy (in person) he’s had a crush on, gone completely head over heels for, and Balthazar is some sort of… not competition, but _something_. His rational brain notices that Castiel is completely uninterested in Balthazar, but his lizard brain is telling him that they’re both from overseas and might find some sort of bond over tea or something, leaving Dean’s unsophisticated ass in the dust. 

“Dean.” 

Not realizing that he’s drifted off, Dean snaps his attention back to Castiel’s eyes. They’re soft at the corners, blue depths dark and beautiful. 

“Let’s have lunch.” 

Smiling small, a little bashful for how his thoughts spiraled, Dean nods. Castiel leads him back into the kitchen, directing him to sit at the eat-in table while he starts pulling things out of the cupboards and fridge. Watching curiously, Dean puts his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, focusing less on his own roadblocks and more on the way Castiel moves around his kitchen with ease, looking scrumptious in his athleisure wear and his perpetual bedhead.

“Tell me more about yourself,” Dean says on a whim.

Castiel cuts him a glance, clearly thinking about whatever he let slip this morning. Dean sends him a small smile. “Whatever _you_ wanna tell me. I’ve known you for a year and I’ve got a good handle on your personality, but as for, like- you as a _person_... I still kinda feel in the dark. You know a lot about me.”

“You talk a lot,” Castiel says with a wry smile, turning towards the stove. 

“And you don’t really speak unless spoken to,” Dean pouts. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” he replies easily. From the smell coming off of the stove, Dean hazards he’s making paninis of some sort. “Like your eyes.”

Dean’s hand slips off of his chin, nearly sending his head cracking onto the table. “Huh?”

Chuckling, Castiel sends a slightly bigger smile towards Dean. “You heard.” 

Wrinkling his nose, feeling a blush spreading from his ears to his chest, Dean turns his gaze towards the living room as he grumbles, “Think you’re so smooth…” 

“Too early for beer?” Castiel asks, opening the fridge.

“Never,” Dean says. “Can you make it red?” 

Castiel blinks in mild confusion.

“Like- uh, here,” Dean stands from the table, walking towards Castiel. “Since it’s still technically morning-ish, beer is ok, but it’s more of a “breakfast item” if you mix some tomato juice into it.” 

Castiel’s face screws up in disgust. “ _Dean_.” 

Laughing, Dean starts looking through the cupboards, inviting himself to make the beer on his own. “You can make it mild, or hot, or spicy, or sweet depending on what else you add to it.” 

Making a noise of disgust, Castiel returns to what are definitely paninis on the stove. Dean grabs two beer bottles out of the fridge, setting them on the counter so he can peruse the cupboards for two tall glasses. He finds hot sauce in one cupboard, worcestershire sauce in another, and a jar of honey on the counter. He fills his glass with ice, dumps in all of the non-beer ingredients, then fills the rest of the glass with beer. Castiel is eyeing him with mild scrutiny; Dean holds out the glass towards him with a smile.

“Would be better with a pepperoncini, but you don’t got those, so this’ll do.” 

Leaning forward, Castiel sniffs it. Then, he takes the glass and has a small sip- his whole face puckers, his hand holding the glass back towards Dean as he recoils. 

“ _Uzhasnyy--_ ” 

Letting out a bark of laughter, Dean takes the glass back and takes a deep drink, smacking his lips and letting out a pleased “Ahhhh~” 

Shuddering, Castiel plates the paninis. “Yuck.” 

Spluttering, Dean covers his mouth and looks at Castiel in disbelief. “ _Yuck_? Are you eight?” 

Scowling, Castiel nods towards his glass. “Pour. Keep your… _drink_ to yourself.” 

“Yeah?” Dean waggles his brows, leaning into Castiel’s space. “My mouth is kinda on fire. Wanna put it out with yours?” 

“I will not kiss you while your lips are swollen,” Castiel says flatly.

Dean’s hand flies up to his mouth, checking to see if his lips are swollen. Castiel’s trying to hide a smile as he turns to take the plates to the table. “Hey!” Dean pours him his beer, following after him with pursed lips.

They sit down across from each other, for once, Castiel still trying to hide his smile as he takes a drink of his beer. “What difference from red beer and bloody mary?” 

“Bloody mary’s can knock you on your ass,” Dean grumbles. “Red beer’s more mild.” 

“Hot sauce is _mild_?” Castiel full on grins now. 

“If it ain’t hot it ain’t worth it,” Dean declares, biting into his sandwich. Mmm, thick bacon, roasted turkey, avocado-

“That’s why you date me,” Castiel says primly.

Dean has to hurriedly grab a napkin and slap it over his mouth to keep his food from spilling out with his laughter. He chews, swallows, then says, “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” 

\--

The day continues on lazily. They watch the other two John Wick movies and do their best to keep from tangling into awkward and painful positions, still making sure they’re touching in some way or another. When Castiel had said last week he wanted to host, he wasn’t kidding. Dean’s sure it’s a cultural thing for Castiel to make sure he has biscuits and drinks within reach; he has an electric kettle that he refills frequently on his own for cups of tea that Dean’s not particularly interested in. Every time he pours, he offers Dean a cup, which he politely refuses, watching with a very interested eye as Castiel shrugs and doctors his tea. He has to make sure he hasn’t offended him by rejecting anything he’s offering. Dean knows literally nothing about Russian culture or heritage. Castiel seems well-adjusted to American living, but if they’re gonna be dating, Dean’s gotta make sure he respects him and where he came from.

But, Castiel is fairly easy going, which Dean is thankful for. He still doesn’t talk much about himself, but Dean’s always known he’s a man of few words, so he does his best not to press. Especially since Castiel let slip at breakfast with Sam that he’d been kicked off of the Russian national hockey team… and was very upset that he’d done so. Dean respects his privacy, even though his curiosity sometimes physically burns him from the inside out, but he wants to make sure that he stays on the same page as Castiel. 

It’s not too different than dating a woman, Dean thinks, making sure that they take their time in learning about each other and going at a pace that suits them. 

But then it _is_ different than dating a woman because every time he sinks into Castiel’s side, the other man is thick and solid and muscular and warm and encompassing and- and-

Phew _ee_ is he gone on this man. 

Castiel is the type of person that turns on the news channel when he's not specifically watching TV and it's so endearing, Dean feels himself melt even as the news anchor goes on about the latest terrible thing. They stand, separate, pee, then converge in the kitchen once more. Castiel has stopped offering him tea, but still asks him frequently if he needs anything. It’s not annoying- not at all- but Dean does feel a little like maybe he _should_ need something. 

As he watches Castiel start pulling things out of the fridge to start dinner, Dean’s suddenly struck by something he _does_ need. 

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” Castiel hums in reply, pulling a few glass jars out of the fridge. 

“I need something.” 

Castiel slides his gaze towards Dean, arching his brow, clearly sensing something with his tone of voice. Walking over as confidently as possible, Dean tries to casually put one hand on the counter and the other on Castiel’s hip, leaning in slightly. A nervous sweat breaks out on his brow, his tiny sliver of confidence immediately evaporates, and suddenly he’s staring into Castiel’s beautifully amused blue eyes, the crinkles at the corners deepening as he realizes what Dean’s trying to do. 

“What do you need, Dean?” he asks, his tone playful and inviting. A soft version of the arrogant teasing he does in the rink. It affects Dean just as much.

Licking his lips, Dean’s eyes dart to Castiel’s mouth. God damn, his mouth. His pink lips, the vertical lines in them, how they look chapped but actually up close they’re just slightly textured… 

Castiel inches closer just slightly. “Dean…?” 

“Can I-” Again, Dean licks his lips. His gaze darts up to Castiel’s, a flush accompanying the slight sweat turning his face sticky. “I want… uh- need… I…” 

“If you’re looking for permission to kiss me,” Castiel says, voice soft as he leans into him. “You have.” 

Relief and anxiety wash through Dean all at once. All that’s happened so far throughout their courting or whatever, he’s only kissed Castiel on the cheek _this_ morning. But! He doesn’t wanna wait any longer! He wants to kiss Castiel while they cuddle and, like, make out with him like a stupid teenager. He just has so many _feelings_ and they make him so fucking nervous but as he stands at the edge of the Gay Cliff or whatever all he wants to do is jump! Fly! Dive head first! Because he knows Castiel is going to be there waiting for him, encouraging him, along with all his friends and his stupid freaking brother, and-

Clumsily, Dean presses their lips together, their noses bumping awkwardly and getting slightly smushed. Letting out an embarrassed noise he makes to pull away- but Castiel reaches up to gently cup the back of his neck, drawing him in for a better angle, their lips pillow soft as they meet. 

Now, Dean’s had plenty of first kisses. Cassie Robinson in the fifth grade was definitely numero uno. Rhonda Hurley his senior year he counts as a first _something_ because hot damn, that girl. And then, subsequently, every single date he’s gone on with a woman or one night stand he would ‘hit and quit’ as Sam hates to hear him say. 

This is existential. 

It’s chaste. Their tongues stay in their mouths but their lips move a little, this way and that, making sure to press every last millimeter of flesh together. Castiel is measured but firm, solid and present in a way that Dean suddenly realizes every woman he’s ever kissed has never been. He can feel the minute scrape of stubble, his breath on his upper lip, is fascinated by the way his fingers curl over his thick hip to draw him closer so their flat chests meet in the middle. Dean’s one hundred percent in the moment and aware of everything that connects them.

Castiel pulls away, eliciting a whimper from Dean. He’s smiling, eyes twinkling and glittering with affection as he leans in for another sweet peck, then pulls away some more. “Satisfied?” 

“I want that all the time,” Dean blurts. His flush deepens, his hand quickly drawing away from Castiel’s hip in an aborted attempt to smack himself upside the head. He refrains at the last minute, though. Just barely. 

“Any time you want,” Castiel says, turning towards the jars he pulled out. He’s still smiling. “But maybe not distract while I make dinner.” 

“Right,” Dean exhales, shuffling backwards a few steps. Boy. He’s feeling a lot, right now. “Can I help?” 

“I will make Russian meal,” Castiel says. “You host me with American food. I want to return favor, show you my culture.” 

“Alright,” Dean says, finding some normalcy seeping back into his body with how unfairly normal Castiel is acting. Frigging guy has probably kissed _so_ many dudes. Damn it. C’mon Dean, pull yourself together! “What’s that consist of?”

“Appetizer one,” Castiel nods his head towards the glass jars. “I prepare for today all week. Those pickled vegetable. I will make _shuba_ now.” 

Walking around Castiel (and unable to keep his hand from drifting across his lower back as he does so), Dean peers into the jars. He carefully pops the lid off of one of them, lifting it up and giving a sniff. His eyes water a bit, but it doesn’t smell that bad. He searches the drawers for a fork, then the cupboards for two small saucers, then starts forking some veggies onto the plates. Satisfied, he pops what looks like cauliflower into his mouth, humming as he moves back to the table with both plates to set their places. If Castiel is anything like him when hosting (which, it seems like Castiel might be a little more bossy in that respect), he knows that he’ll just be getting in the way if he hovers. 

“This’s good,” he compliments. “You do this yourself?” 

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel says. Dean can’t really see what he’s doing at the counter, but nothing smells funky, so he thinks that’s alright. “In Russia, winter months long. Pickling vegetables-” god, Dean loves the way he even says ‘vegetables’, “-easiest way to keep them fresh. They are good snack. Good for stomach.” 

Nodding, Dean pokes around his plate to pick up a few more things and stuff them in his mouth all at once. “What’s _shuba_?” 

“Fish,” he replies, gesturing idly with the knife in his hand. “You call… herring?” 

Arching a brow, Dean forgoes his fork to pull some cabbage into his mouth. “How’s it prepared?” 

“Marinade. Like pickled vegetable. Russians eat another way, but I like in salad with cooked vegetable… I make my own sauce, too.” 

“You mean dressing?”

Castiel nods. “Many put apple on top. I make apple… dressing.”

Dean grins. “Hey, I’m always game to try something new. Not sure about pickled herring but I’ll give it a go.” 

“It is good for you,” Castiel says gravely. He grabs two plates from the cupboard and starts putting things on them, before bringing them to the table. He sets them down then walks back to the fridge, pulling out a covered pot and putting it on the stove. He turns the burner on to heat it up, grabs two glasses and a pitcher of water, then sits across from Dean looking quite pleased with himself. “Soup will be warm soon.” 

Dean’s busy looking at his plate. It almost looks… really professional? Like a chef just set a deconstructed salad in front of him. Greens, potatoes, carrots, boiled eggs, along with the chunks of herring and a dressing drizzled over the top. 

“I did not have time to make bread,” Castiel says, tone apologetic.

“Dude,” Dean says with a bit of disbelief. “You made all of this from scratch. If you had time to bake bread you wouldn’t have slept all week.” 

Shrugging, Castiel picks up his fork. “I was excited. It has been long time since I have guest.”

Dean’s heart strings pull taut at those words. Castiel has been living in America for two years and, supposedly, outside of work his only human interactions have been with his cousin Gabriel, who honestly sounds kind of annoying. Only in the past year has Castiel branched out and made friends with the hockey squad, and only in the past month or so has he and Dean finally started putting aside their differences. Gathering as much of everything as he can on his fork, he also gathers all of his courage to reply. 

“Any time you want company, Cas, let me know. I’ll be here.” 

Castiel softens. “ _Spasibo_ , Dean.” 

Dean stuffs his mouth full of salad. “How do you say ‘you’re welcome’?” 

Something sparks in Castiel’s eyes. “ _Ne za chto, dorogoy._ ”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” he replies innocently. 

“Like you just taught me to say something naughty.” 

“Not naughty,” Castiel shakes his head. 

He points at the other man with his fork. “What does that mean?”

“‘Thank you’,” Castiel replies with a straight face… except for the corners of his lips that are twitching uncontrollably. 

“You’re lying!” 

“I’m not-” Castiel finally lets out a little laugh. “It is form of thanks. But reserved for…” his smile widens. “...sweetheart.” 

Dean’s ears burn. He looks down at his plate, accidentally stabbing his herring so hard it crumbles as he grumbles, “Just regular ‘thank you’ would have been fine.” 

“Not as fun,” Castiel says. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean asks him to repeat it one more time, before trying to say it back. “ _Ne za…_ ” he frowns. “ _shi-to…_ ”

Castiel says nothing, taking a long drink of water. “ _Na za chto dorogoy_.”

Dean whines, “That’s too many words.” 

“Try _pozhaluysta dorogoy_.” 

“That’s like, the same amount of syllables!”

Castiel sends him a flat look.

“ _Po-ja-lu-shta do-lo-goy_ ,” he says roughly, feeling like an idiot.

Castiel chuckles. “Close. We practice.” 

Dean finally cracks a smile. “I’m not too good at languages.” 

“Sam say you watch teleno… tele...” 

Groaning in embarrassment, Dean sits back in his chair. “God damn it, Sam can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“I think it cute,” Castiel says, using his fork to get some vegetables out of the jar. “You don’t learn Spanish?” 

“I-” Dean huffs. “I can’t speak it good but I can understand it fine. ‘Sides, you don’t gotta be fluent to follow along with those stories.” 

“I see,” Castiel says with a small nod. “They are dramatic.” 

“I love it,” Dean confesses. “They’re usually only on when the world is asleep so I only watch ‘em a few times a month, when my insomnia gets outta hand.”

Castiel blinks in surprise. “You don’t sleep well?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Not unless I’m dog tired when I get home from work. I get… really ramped up over the week.” He sighs. “Customer service, man. Doin’ things with a smile makes me wanna stab tiny woodland creatures.”

Castiel’s eyebrows raise.

“Not that I would,” Dean says quickly.

Snorting, Castiel shakes his head and takes another bite of food. “That is why hockey is important?”

“Yep,” he says with a sigh. “Y’know, stupid macho stuff.”

“I don’t think stupid,” Castiel replies. “What is stressful about work?” 

“Just- people who don’t know shit and get under my skin.” Dean pushes around some herring, covering it with vegetables. It’s tasty, but only if he’s not looking at it. The heads are still attached… “Like, comin’ in for an oil change and not realizing they shoulda been in months ago. People who only get their car serviced when somethin’s wrong instead of yearly.” 

Castiel nods sagely. “So… people who rely on professionals to give them advice?” 

That makes Dean stop short. “I mean-” he flushes. “...Yeah.” 

“Helping people is difficult when they are stubborn,” Castiel says, “but when people come in looking for help because they don’t know… they trust you.”

“I guess.” Dean huffs, poking at his salad some more. Damn Castiel and his good frigging advice. “It just gets tiresome.” 

“You have been doing long time. Customers blend. Hard to tell angry soccer mom from inexperienced young adult.”

Nodding, Dean finally puts food in his mouth. “Yeah. And like- I get it, it’s not their faults. A lot of people don’t know shit about cars even though basically everyone has one. And as much as I wanna tell someone to Google how often they should get their tires rotated, I don’t, ‘cause that’s _my_ customer, not Google’s.” He sighs again. “It _is_ the angry soccer moms, man. Or maybe even the dudes twenty years older than me that start talkin’ about how they serviced tanks in the war and know their way around an engine better than a “pretty boy” like me, they only come to me ‘cause their bodies won’t let ‘em work.” He rolls his eyes. “I gotta invent a system where people drop off their cars with a robot and we communicate through a freaking portal or somethin’. I love people, y’know? But man, do I fuckin’ hate ‘em.” 

Castiel laughs a little louder. “You have a lot pent up. Do you talk to Sam?” 

Dean shrugs. “Don’t really wanna bother him, y’know? We only see each other in the evenings during the week and he’s busy with his bigshot job. Don’t wanna put more on his plate. He’s gotta relax, too, and if I’m whinin’ about somethin’ he can’t do that.”

“What about you?” Castiel asks. “When do _you_ get to relax?” 

Dean shuts up. No one’s ever really asked him that, and yet in the past few weeks Castiel has managed to turn quite a things on head in such an elegant manner that it catches him off guard. Dean’s so used to checking in on everyone and everything that he hasn’t really noticed that… no one checks in on him. Probably not ‘cause they don’t care, ‘cause he knows they do- but definitely because… Dean doesn’t let them.

Wow. 

“You’re like, Russian Buddha or something,” Dean declares. 

Shrugging, Castiel finishes off his salad. He stands up, gestures to Dean’s plate, then clears everything from the table when Dean says he’s done. Dean watches him move about the kitchen, cleaning up as he goes, a comfortable silence falling between them punctuated by dishes being cleaned and food being moved. The scent of the soup is tantalizing, making Dean’s mouth water. He watches Castiel with his usual admiration, perhaps… a little more emphasized than before. 

He’s only a few years older than Dean, and yet, so much wiser. 

“Cas?” 

“Mm?” 

“Did… somethin’ bad happen to you in Russia?”

Castiel stops stirring the soup, his back turned to Dean. He’s not very tense, but Dean can see his shoulders lifting slightly towards his ears, a movement he clearly does his best to control. After a few breaths of silence, he says, “Yes.”

Dean’s heart breaks. He stands up, crossing the kitchen in only a few steps so he can wrap his arms around Castiel’s waist from behind, pressing his forehead to the space between his shoulder blades. Castiel stays tense, but Dean stands firm, holding him tightly and doing his best to smother him in the love and affection he so clearly needs and deserves.

“S’alright,” Dean says, his voice muffled by Castiel’s shirt. He turns his head, shifts, then presses his cheek against the knob of Castiel’s spine, their height difference giving him a slight advantage in position. “You don’t gotta talk about it, buddy.”

Still tense, Castiel leans back slightly against Dean’s chest. “One day…” 

“Any time you’re ready,” Dean says staunchly. “I mean it. I- I’m an idiot, I keep pressing-”

“No, Dean,” Castiel lets the spoon rest in the pot, shifting to turn around in Dean’s embrace. He reaches up, cupping both of Dean’s cheeks in his palms, searching his eyes. “You don’t cross lines. Do not worry.”

Brow furrowing, Dean squeezes Castiel, their hips coming together to solidify the embrace. It’s sweet, tender, warming him from the inside. “I just don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” Castiel reassures him quickly, easily. He leans in, pressing a slow, affectionate kiss to Dean’s lips. “The only person who know about Russia is Gabriel. He… save me. And I have not talked about…” he closes his eyes, then draws in for a hug, his head going into the crook of Dean’s neck. He’s vulnerable. It’s strange. All Dean can do is hold him, the mood sobering quite a bit and nearly stealing the breath from his lungs. “You are good man, Dean.”

Chuckling softly, Dean tries to lighten the mood. “You’re too pretty to look so worried.”

He feels Castiel’s lips curl against his neck. 

“Let’s get this soup goin’. Wanna take a walk after we eat? Too wet to skate.” 

Castiel nods, pressing the barest of kisses against the curve of Dean’s neck. He then pulls away, exhales a deep breath, then meets Dean’s gaze. “Thank you.” 

Dean smiles, reaching up to chuck his knuckles affectionately under Castiel’s chin. “I’ve got you, Cas.” 

He does.

\--

Dinner is delicious. Apparently Dean has been missing out on _solyanka_ his entire life because it’s fucking delicious and he’s sorta mad that he’s just now being introduced to it. Sweet and sour, loaded with meat, it’s fucking hearty and delicious and Castiel barely blinks when he puts a giant glob of sour cream on top when it’s passed to him. Dinner conversation is light, mostly Castiel asking Dean about others in the hockey group, saying that there are some he doesn’t talk to too often. Hell, he talks to Dean, Sam, and Charlie more than his own team, which Dean thinks is mildly hilarious, because it proves that his team is squared up off of fear alone. 

Dean would be too, y’know. 

Balthazar seems to be some strange, alien outlier. 

After dinner they bundle up, Castiel lending Dean a sweater and coat, repaying the favor from last weekend. The walk down to the docks takes about twenty minutes, which is impressive. The breeze blasting off of the water, however, is not. They only gaze at the scenery for about ten minutes before Dean starts complaining, then they head back. Fingers laced, walking closely together, Dean allows the warmth from Castiel’s huge hand enveloping his own to seep through the rest of his body and limbs. 

Back home, he helps Castiel clean up after dinner, despite Castiel’s protests. Dean’s feeling kinda cutesy, though, so he splashes Castiel with bubbles, tosses towels at him, and acts generally goofy. He just feels so… _good_. And even though there are lots of layers to uncover to Castiel, lots that he still needs to find out, he knows deep in his heart and full on in his gut that this is right. Castiel is right. They can move at their own pace, learn things about each other when it feels right. 

He never thought he’d get into a relationship that didn’t make him anxious or worried about the future, but here he is, taking things day by day with Castiel. 

Crazy. 

They unwind with a beer on the couch, then Castiel invites Dean upstairs. 

Well- this? _This_ makes Dean anxious, but for an entirely different reason. 

He follows Castiel up the stairs, unable to help but stare at his ass as they climb. Damn, it’s tight. And perky. Looks good for lap-sitting. And grabbing. And kissing. And-

“Dean.” 

Oh shit, they’ve reached the second floor.

Dean gives a sheepish smile, not even bothering to hide his blush. “Yeah?”

Castiel sends him a knowing smile. “Would you like spare room or my room?” 

Oh shit, he has an option.

Now- he could take the easy, cowardly way out, because a little part of him isn’t convinced he’s prepared to share a bed with another man. Not because of like- not because of anything _bad_ , just because… dudes take up a lot of space, right? And Castiel isn’t _small_ , in fact he’s only an inch or two shorter than Dean but _broader_ in the shoulders and chest and his thighs alone probably take up two-thirds of the bed, and Dean has shared beds with Sam before but that freaking monkey probably _purposely_ takes up space because even when he’s asleep he’s still an asshole baby brother and-

Castiel takes his hand. “Come see, first.” 

He leads Dean to his bedroom, turning on the light. There, in the middle of Castiel’s bed, is Dean’s duffel bag, just as he imagined it. Only- only… better. Because Castiel has a king sized bed dressed in dark fabric and fluffy pillows. He has dressers and tables and a little desk with a laptop on it. There’s a door that leads to what’s most likely the closet. He doesn’t have an en suite but that’s a-ok because this is heaven, anyway. The atmosphere in here is warm and heavy, just like Castiel, and Dean feels himself blushing as he nods. 

“Here.” 

Castiel looks pleased. Dean takes his duffel off of the bed, setting it on the floor and crouching next to it to unzip it and pull out his pajama pants and spare t-shirt. A bit of shuffling, awkward laughter and questions, and they’re both in and out of the bathroom (separately!) and then standing on opposite sides of the bed. 

Amusement and fondness dancing in his eyes, Castiel gestures expansively. “Do you have favorite side?”

“Honestly it doesn’t matter,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, “‘cause I’m gonna end up on top of you, anyway. Bad sleep habit.”

“Terrible habit,” Castiel says gravely “how ever will I still like you after.”

Dean sighs dramatically. “You won’t. My foot will end up on your stomach and you’ll dump me before we even wake up.” 

Chuckling, Castiel starts pulling back the comforter and sheets. Dean moves to help, enjoying how heavy and soft everything feels. In the low light provided by the lamp next to Castiel’s side of the bed they slip between the covers, close. Castiel turns off the lamp, Dean makes a point of turning off his phone alarm, and then they rotate to lie facing one another. In the darkness Dean can barely make out his features, but damn, if he still isn’t handsome as hell up close. Under the covers heats up quickly with their combined body heat, but Dean doesn’t let himself out of the covers even one centimeter. 

Quietly, Castiel says, “I am glad you are here.” 

Melting, Dean’s hand flops around a bit until he finds Castiel’s, lacing their fingers and resting their hands between their bodies. “M’glad to be here.” Then, with a grin, “Your bed is awesome.” 

“Truly my only worthy quality,” Castiel says sadly.

“I mean… it’s got good decorations,” Dean says, inching his body closer. “The color is nice. The pillows are soft but, like, not _too_ soft and fluffy. And the accessory of a smokin’ hot dude really sells it, y’know?”

Castiel’s free hand reaches out, grabbing Dean’s hip and pulling him forward. Their legs tangle seamlessly, like they’ve done it a million times before, Castiel’s hand on the small of Dean’s back to hold him steady, grounding him and the butterflies that explode in his stomach. This is it!! He’s in bed with a man!! And he hasn’t puked!!!

… Yet.

From _nerves_ , ok? Castiel doesn’t make him wanna puke. Nerves make him wanna puke. 

Fuck.

“Today was good day,” Castiel says softly. “You make it so much better.” 

Ducking his head a little, even though Castiel can’t see his stupid blush, Dean chuckles lightly. “Yeah, well- anyone with eyes coulda seen that… somethin’ made you sad. Hell, if you an’ I hadn’t busted outta there, Sam woulda started up with the showtunes. You’re… you’re important to us, Cas. Important to _me_. And even if I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you, I still wanna be there for ya.”

Castiel’s arm flexes to bring Dean’s body even closer to his. Their foreheads touch, their noses brush. From this close, Dean can see that Castiel’s eyes are closed, his expression smooth. “You know I do same for you, right?” 

“F’course,” Dean replies easily.

Castiel’s eyes open, drilling Dean into the wall on the other side of the room. “Do you?” 

Frowning a little, Dean chews his lip. “I mean… yeah?”

“I don’t think you believe,” Castiel says simply, but not angrily. He scoots in closer, then presses a chaste, sweet kiss to Dean’s lips. “But in time, I make you.” 

Letting out a little laugh, feeling heat tingling from his lips up to his ears, Dean shifts to press his face into the curve of Castiel’s throat, sinking into the softness of the bed and the other man’s embrace. 

It’s quiet. 

It’s perfect. 

“Sam say you watch _Dr. Sexy_.” 

“Honestly, I’m gonna _kill_ that fucking asshole-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was either pointless word vomit, or had some sort of strange purpose that of which i am unaware of.  
> it's been a really rough... well, let's face it, while, lol.  
> I don't remember writing most of this so I think I'm actually posting while in some sort of fever dream...
> 
> p.s.-  
> wash your hands!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short, fluffy chapter that is actually a filler but shhh.  
> we'll get the plot moving soon enough.  
> most russian is decipherable with context clues but i have translations in the end notes! pls remember this narrative is VERY dean pov/stream of consciousness so i'm basically ignoring all grammar rules.

Dean’s been awake for twenty minutes, though no one would know it. He’s kept his eyes closed, his body relaxed, his breathing even. There’s no way he wants to move or even wiggle his eyelashes because…

Castiel is practically glued to him. Their legs are tangled, his face is smushed into Dean’s armpit, an arm thrown over his waist and his pelvis snug against Dean’s hip. They’re aligned so perfectly that they just _fit_ and there’s no weird heaviness that crushes him and makes him suffer for the sake of ‘cuddling’ until he can’t take it anymore and pretends to sleepily roll over when in reality he’s suffocating. 

It’s not like that at all.

He definitely feels a dick pressing against his hip, which in turn has his own dick tenting his pajama pants, but that’s natural and for some reason way less freaky than a girl rubbing on him and trying to rouse him for morning sex. Well- not that he expects this will turn into morning sex! They’ve been dating for like two weeks, _barely_ , and he’s still so clumsy and virginal he’s not _expecting_ anything like that. 

“Deanka,” Castiel’s voice is gruff from sleep, the vibrations of his mouth traveling from Dean’s armpit through the rest of his body, causing his toes to curl. “ _Spat._ ”

Unsure of the exact command, Dean knows an order when he hears one, no matter what language. But now he absolutely cannot go back to sleep, thinking too much about how Castiel presses against him, how he adjusts his face to come out of Dean’s pit and shift to instead pillow his head on his bicep so his mouth is free. His eyes are still shut, his hair messy, his stubbly kinda (pleasantly) scratchy on Dean’s skin, super close to his nipple, which causes it to peak in interest and erupt in goosebumps. 

Phew. What an interesting sensation, breaking out in a sweat at God-knows-when-o’clock. Dean’s body naturally wakes up before eight every single day, so he’s assuming it’s some awful time that people usually sleep past on the weekends. Including Castiel, it seems. From seeing him on Saturdays and texting him during the week, he’s never come off as a sleepyhead, but Dean’s learning that’s exactly what he is.

After going back and forth in his head a few times, Dean shifts. He doesn’t want to leave the sanctuary of Castiel’s bed (and arms… and legs) but he has to piss. And he’s hungry. And needs caffeine. Basically all of his regular morning functions and cravings and routines are rearing their heads and if he ignores them he’ll be off-kilter all day. 

Very carefully he starts extracting himself. Castiel makes a noise of complaint, mumbling “ _nyet_ ” under his breath and squeezing Dean even tighter, like some sort of hot man Chinese finger trap. 

“Sweetheart, I gotta pee,” Dean says, keeping his voice soft and low. As he moves the heat and solidity of Castiel’s erection disappears from his hip. He wants it back, desperately, but his dumb ass brain is like, a hundred percent sure that he’s not ready for dick-on-dick action right now. Or hand on dick. Or- really any dick action. Not because _he’s_ a dick, but because he’s doing his best to avoid a “gay panic”, as Sam so elegantly put it, and he’s been doing a pretty decent job so far. Removing himself from this situation is for the sake of his sanity and their relationship. 

“ _Toropit’sya_ ,” Castiel murmurs in reply as Dean finally sneaks out of the bed. He immediately moves into the warm spot Dean was just occupying, curling up into it like a big cat. 

Golly gee, how can someone be so devastatingly hot _and_ adorable at the same time?

Dean grabs his toiletry bag and leaves the bedroom to head to the bathroom. He pees, then takes a quick shower, leaving his hair dry and rinsing the dried sweat off of his body. Castiel’s a fucking furnace, and adding nervous sweat to that is a really… well, rank combination. The water doesn’t even have a chance to get hot before he’s getting out, toweling himself off and wrapping the fabric around his waist so he can start brushing his teeth. He’s not sure he’s ready for Castiel to see the amount of skincare products he has.... And, look, Dean’s perfectly fine with having a good routine, otherwise he wouldn’t _have_ the products in the first place, and he even buys them in store versus buying them online so he can leisurely browse, he has an Ulta card and is a platinum member-

Listen, he’s just gotta ease into this, because that’s how he operates.

Scrubbing his tongue, Dean suddenly realizes that… actually, he has no idea how he operates at all, because his longest relationship was with Lisa and that was a disaster and she never knew that he wears SPF every day of the year without fail. 

Welp. 

He pulls out his skincare bottles and jars, lining them up for easy access as he starts applying them. The door rattling for half a second is all the warning he gets before Castiel is stumbling into the bathroom blearily, rubbing his eyes and making a beeline for the toilet. Dean freezes, bottle of toner in hand, staring at the cotton pad in his other hand as he does his best to not look while Castiel relieves himself. The toilet flushes, Castiel bumps Dean with his hip to get him to move, then he washes his hands without a care in the world. He presses a kiss to Dean’s shoulder, casual and easy as ever, then leaves the bathroom, Dean still staring at his cotton pad with a huge flush running from his ears down to his chest. 

So much for Castiel not seeing his fucking skincare collection. 

Also, Jesus, don’t couples usually wait at least until after they move in together to share bathroom space like that? 

Good God.

Exhaling shortly, Dean carries on with his routine. He washes his hands, gathers his stuff, then leaves the bathroom to return his toiletry bag to his duffel. Castiel isn’t in the bedroom, which is shocking considering he was basically dead to the world both in bed and in the bathroom not five minutes ago. Dean dresses in fresh boxers, a new pair of sweats and a t-shirt, before heading downstairs. His nose is hit with the scent of coffee and something sweet, a smile curving his lips before he realizes it. In the kitchen Castiel is doing the dishes leftover from last night, turning fond eyes over his shoulder as he hears Dean approaching.

“Coffee.” 

Dean sees a coffee cup on the table along with a plate of… breakfast biscuits?, sitting down and taking a deep drink of the life nectar before picking up a biscuit and taking a bite of it. Hm. Sweet with some fruit baked into it, the outside crispy and the inside soft. Delicious. He dunks it in his coffee, looking on as Castiel cleans. Store bought, but still tasty. “How’dya sleep?” 

“Deep,” Castiel replies. “Sleep hard for me. You make better.”

Mmm, his accent is especially thick in the morning. Dean’s eyes rove over his frame with absolutely zero filter. Castiel’s hair is more ruffled than usual, his stacked frame highlighted by his elegant outfit of a tank top and his boxers. Dean takes his time admiring him from a distance, taking in his tattoos and the dermal piercings on his arms, lifting his coffee to his mouth for a slow drink so he can look at Castiel over the rim of his mug. 

Honestly, what a beautiful man. Confident, kind, generous, wicked good cuddler, awesome cook, super fine to look at… 

“I will shower,” Castiel says, putting the last dish on the dish rack and turning towards Dean, looking mildly surprised to see him already looking at him. “You ok?”

Dean gives what’s surely a dopey smile. “M’awesome.” 

Plush pink lips curling into an amused smile, Castiel nods. “I will be back.” 

Alone in the kitchen, Dean scrubs a hand over his face. Things are sorta sinking in, now. He just spent the night with his _boy_ friend, who made no grabs for him, showed him tenderness and warmth, who also apparently feels comfortable enough to share a bathroom with him. Thinking it over, Dean’s fairly certain this is just how real people do relationships. Maybe. Yeah, he’s super attracted to Castiel. Like, majorly attracted. But there’s also something… else, there, something that runs deeper than attraction. Dean’s been told many times by multiple people that he’s emotionally stunted, and that’s probably true, but when he’s with Castiel he feels… different. Like he’s actually experiencing _true, real_ emotions, the proper emotions that someone should feel for a significant other. 

It’s beyond thinking that Castiel is hot. It’s beyond getting hate boners in the rink or love boners while sharing a bed. 

It’s Castiel being a guest in his home, lighting it up with his smile and dealing with Dean’s bullshit (and Sam’s, too, let’s be honest).

It’s Castiel showing Dean a vulnerable side when he talks about his past, trusting Dean to… well, make things better. 

And you know what? It’s also _Dean_ sharing his thoughts and emotions with Castiel, it’s also _Dean_ being vulnerable and trusting Castiel to… well, make things better. 

Standing up, Dean moves to the counter to pour himself another cup of coffee, as well as grab a mug from the cupboard. Just as he starts filling Castiel’s cup he hears the man coming down the stairs, a weird pleasure filling Dean knowing that they smell the same. Turning around, he holds the mug out towards Castiel, who, when within easy grabbing distance, takes the cup and smoothly sets it down on the counter, instead reaching forward to cup the back of Dean’s neck and draw him in for a slow, sensual kiss. 

Dean’s brain immediately fries.

Castiel’s tongue sweeps into his mouth with confidence, his fingers tangled in Dean’s hair. Dean’s hands flail a bit before landing on Castiel’s body, one on his hip and the other on his chest, fingers pressing into solid muscle as his own tongue slips and slides, heat rocketing through his body. 

When Castiel pulls away, his blue eyes are bright, his dark hair wet and messy. His stubble is shaved down, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes so Goddamn attractive Dean thinks it should be illegal.

“ _Dobroye utro,_ Deanka.” 

“Mornin’,” Dean greets in return, nearly embarrassed at how breathless his voice sounds. “Poured your coffee.” 

“ _Spasibo_ ,” Castiel says, though he doesn’t move, his eyes trailing over Dean’s features with adoration and thoughtfulness.

Of course, Dean squirms a little. “Uh. Do I… is my face ok?”

Castiel chuckles. “Your face perfect, Dean.” His hand slides from Dean’s neck to gently cup his cheek, thumb swiping under Dean’s eyes. “I am happy to see you.” 

“We been together for twenty-four hours, sweetheart,” Dean says with a crooked smile, trying to squash down the butterflies erupting in his stomach.

“And that make me happy.” Castiel says decisively. “I was in bad mood, yesterday. You fix. And you are still here.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’d leave,” he replies honestly. 

Castiel’s entire expression softens, along with his palm against Dean’s cheek. “Thank you.” 

Dean nuzzles Castiel’s palm like a big ol’ happy cat. “Whatcha wanna do today?” 

Castiel looks over his shoulder, presumably out of the kitchen window. “Weather better. Roads dry. Skate to beach?”

“Sure,” Dean nods, smiling warmly before turning his head to kiss Castiel’s palm. “Breakfast first? Can’t skate on an empty stomach.”

“What would you like?” Castiel hums in reply, pressing his palm to Dean’s lips to squish them, then draws his hand away while letting his thumb linger over Dean’s lower lip. “I have _bliny_ batter in fridge.”

“What’s- like, pancakes?” 

“Something like that,” Castiel nods. “Thin. Not like crepe, not like pancake. In the middle. We can cover in syrup or honey.” 

“Huh.” Grinning, Dean pats Castiel warmly on the shoulders. “Sounds good. Maybe while you’re making those I can make some fruit syrup to go over them?” 

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel replies, looking pleased with Dean’s contribution. Noted. “I have whip cream, too.” 

“Awesome.” 

Castiel pulls out a bowl from the fridge, moving to the stove to start getting things ready. Dean shops around a little, interested and amazed by some of the stuff Castiel keeps in his fridge. Lots of fresh fruit and vegetables along with containers with Russian labels, likely bought at the local _Kiev_. He pulls out a bowl of raspberries and strawberries, joining Castiel at the stove. They work in tandem, bumping elbows but never in each other’s way. The kitchen fills with the sweet fragrance of breakfast food and their chuckles as they work quietly, the mood and atmosphere warm and fuzzy, like a big ol’ blanket over their shoulders on a winter’s day. 

The table is set in the next ten minutes. Along with the food is a carton of orange juice and fresh cups of coffee. They sit across from each other, feet tangled as they start eating. Dean, of course, can’t help but make pornographic noises as he eats his _bliny_ , filled and folded with whipped cream and drizzled with warm fruit compote. Castiel watches him fondly as he eats much quieter than him, per usual. 

It’s perfect, God damn it. 

When will the other shoe drop? 

He’s never had such a good morning after. And hell, it isn’t even an actual morning after! No walk of shame, no crust on his boxers, no awkward goodbyes and empty promises to call. Just him and Castiel after a night of some of the best sleep he’s ever had and definitely the most amazing cuddles he’s ever been a part of and… fuck, it’s just perfect. They mesh so well. They host each other well, they work well with each other. God damn.

Next Saturday in the rink is gonna be… interesting, that’s for sure. 

Together they clean up. Dean’s full, but not stuffed, Castiel having served both their portions. He could really learn a lesson from this guy. Dean tends to overeat, but he just really loves good food, and Castiel introducing these new delicious things to him is gonna threaten to tip him over. Good thing they’re exercising after breakfast, aha. 

Dressing in jeans, shirts, and borrowing a sweater from Castiel to bundle up, they head to the front porch. Dean makes a quick detour to his car to get his roller blades, returning to where Castiel is tightening his own. Once they’re both ready they head down the walkway to the sidewalk, crossing the road and holding hands as they start the scenic trek towards the docks. 

It smells amazing, the salty bite of the sea carried on the wind. The sun is trying to peek out from behind the grey clouds, the wind is low, and it’s just generally a nice day, if not a bit chilly. Skating for them is as easy as walking, so they don’t really work up a sweat as they make their way down a tree-lined path. There are other people out with similar ideas, on bicycle or foot, with whom they exchange friendly nods with as they travel.

The docks are pretty big, but not overly complicated. Castiel knows exactly where he’s going, leading Dean by the hand to one of the docks out towards the far end, where a pretty large boat sits, docked and buoyed and without any of her sails. Castiel stops in front of this one, gesturing at it with a small smile.

“The boat I share with Gabriel,” he announces.

Dean lets out a whistle. “Damn, Cas. That’s a sweet ride. How many feet is it?” 

“Forty-two,” he says. “Gabriel have other boat he use for films. This one just for us.” 

“You mean his pornos,” Dean says with a waggle of his brows.

Laughing, Castiel rolls his eyes a bit, gently pushing at Dean’s shoulder. “Yes, Dean. The porn.” 

“This is huge for just the two of you though,” Dean says, walking more than skating down the length of the dock due to how the planks are spaced. “You go out on it often?” 

“I know how to sail,” Castiel says. “This too big to sail alone, so Gabriel come often with some friends.” 

“Damn,” Dean says with unconcealed admiration, turning shining eyes towards Castiel. “You really know how to hit all my buttons, huh?” 

Smirking a little, Castiel shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets, looking away casually. “I try.” 

“Sammy would love to go out on this thing,” Dean says knowingly. He makes his way back to Castiel. “When can I meet Gabriel?”

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “I prefer never, but he always get in my way, somehow. He does not know about you, yet. But as soon as he learns...” He lets out a dramatic (for him) sigh. 

Laughing, Dean shrugs. “He can’t be that bad.”

“Is Sam single?” Castiel asks. 

That catches Dean off guard. “Uh-?”

“And is he attracted to men?” 

Heat flushes Dean’s cheeks from some weird emotion he can’t identify. “He- I mean, he’s single and uh, I mean, he’s never really specified either way, I don’t really… think he cares that much about gender. Why?” 

“Because he is Gabriel’s type,” Castiel explains. 

All of the weird gross emotions trying to give him a heart attack stop. Sighing in relief, Dean reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “That’s it?” 

Scowling, Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. “‘That’s it’? Dean, Gabriel is very convincing. He owns big share in adult film. You should be worried about him scalloping Sam.”

Dean squints. “What-ing Sam?” 

“Scalloping,” Castiel says, gesturing idly with his hand, looking mildly irritated. “Hiring him.” 

“Oh- _scalping_.” Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth to hide his smile- Castiel is already miffed, he doesn’t need to make it worse by laughing at his mistake. Clearing his throat, Dean shrugs. “Sammy’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“You say now…” Castiel trails off, shooting Dean a judgy look when he notices him trying not to laugh. “But Sam everything Gabriel not have in actor. He is very handsome. Gabriel will notice.” 

“Hey, worst case scenario is Sam gets asked to be in a porno and he says no,” Dean says with a shrug.

Castiel arches a brow, his tone flat as he says, “No, Dean. Worst case scenario is Sam say ‘yes’.” 

Dean’s blood runs cold as a full-bodied shudder tumbles through him. “Alright, we are officially changing the subject.”

Finally Castiel cracks a smile, looking up at the boat again. “Gabriel call her _’Archangel’_.” 

“Hm.” Shrugging, Dean nods as he looks over the vessel. She’s clean even in the gross excuse of a spring the Pacific Northwest offers, and he can only imagine what she looks like all shine up and seaworthy. “Y’know, I’m not normally a boat person, but I think I’d like to be on this one.” 

“You will like,” Castiel says confidently. “I did not like at first, but after one ride, I wanted more.” 

“Kinda like us, huh?” Dean muses. “Spent so long being asses to each other and then when we finally gave it a chance we can’t get enough of each other.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You mean when you notice I am nice outside of rink?” 

Huffing, Dean scoffs. “How was I to know?” 

“By listening to Sam,” Castiel says dryly, though there’s mirth in his eyes. “You are stubborn.”

“And you’re not?” Grinning, Dean reaches out to gently cuff Castiel on the shoulder. “Let’s get back. The breeze of the water is cold as tits.”

Reaching out, Castiel blatantly palms at Dean’s chest through his sweater. Dean’s nipples harden, his gut swirls, and his cheeks flush at the manhandling as Castiel just _gropes_ the fuck outta him. Castiel isn’t smiling, his face drawn in faux concentration as he feels Dean up like a pushy eighth grader. 

“Seem fine.” 

“Stop-” Dean screeches, his protest cut off by laughter as he slaps Castiel’s hands away. “Jesus!”

Castiel starts walking away, carefully so his roller blades don’t get caught up in the planks, calling over his shoulder, “Let us go home so I may warm your cold tits.” 

The skate back to Castiel’s townhome is filled with playful shoving and immature flirting, their fingers tangling and releasing, shoulders bumping, Dean skating backwards and singing Taylor Swift while shimmying his hips. It’s dumb and stupid and by the time they’re at Castiel’s doorstep they’re trying to hold each other up as they laugh, Castiel having a hard time getting his key to slot into the door. When they make it into the foyer and the door shuts behind them, Dean surprises himself by pulling Castiel towards him for a kiss, both of their teeth knocking against each other because they’re still smiling. Their noses smush, their lips smack, but eventually they slot together just right. Still on their wheels, they adjust as they turn in a half circle, Castiel pushing forward until Dean’s back presses against the wall. He drapes his arms loosely over Castiel’s shoulders, enjoying the man’s big hands on his hips, squeezing his love handles and making him feel cherished instead of embarrassed. 

Breaking apart, Castiel’s eyes are warm, his pupils dilated and lips shiny. On their wheels their height difference is still the same, though Castiel manages to make him feel some sort of small and treasured, especially when he holds him or looks at him just like this. 

“Are you warm now?” Castiel asks, the cheeky asshole.

“Hmmm,” Dean pretends to think about it. He’s hot all over from Castiel’s kisses and touches. So, naturally, he says, “Still cold.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel hums in reply. His hands lift to cup Dean’s face to bring him in for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. 

Now, here’s the thing. Castiel is a fucking amazing kisser. Of course, all they’ve done so far is kiss, so there’s probably other things he’s good at, too, outside of kissing, or maybe he kisses other parts of the body just as well - maybe better? - like the neck or the chest or the waist or the… the… well!! You know, other places! And maybe he touches better than he kisses? Though Dean can’t imagine anything being _better_ than Castiel’s mouth. Then again, his hands are pretty big and dexterous and soft all at the same time, but Dean also knows they’re mean as hell, gripping a hockey stick, catching a puck mid-air, how they get all veiny when he uses them even in the slightest bit and… and… 

Oh fuck.

He has a boner. 

Castiel presses against him just as he has that realization, a soft groan leaving Dean’s lips without his permission. Castiel lets out a low noise in return, now purposely pressing against him. A panic button appears in Dean’s head, big and red, waiting for him to slam it repeatedly to get out of this situation but… but he should wait, right? Not hit it prematurely (fuck that word right now) and end things before he even has a chance to see how they progress. So he holds back a little bit, trembling in his fingertips as they lift to card through Castiel’s hair, tugging softly as he lets his mouth yield to Castiel’s tongue. There’s no dry humping like teenagers, no rocking or grinding or anything like that. Just consistent pressure of Castiel’s hips against his own and oh… yep… ah, that’s it, right there- Castiel has a boner, too. 

Which, duh! That’s what happens when- well, _this_ happens, and like, ok, Dean _knows_ Castiel _like_ likes him, but it still kinda gobsmacks him that he affects him _physically_ , y’know? Castiel is so controlled in the rink, barking orders at his teammates, skating like a fucking god and playing effortlessly, and he’s a successful business owner for fuck’s sake, he’s just generally so cool and amazing and out of Dean’s league that it genuinely surprises him when Castiel is… like this. Like it’s one thing for Castiel to say he likes Dean, feels affection for him or whatever, but to have him physically reacting is-

“Dean.”

Castiel’s deep, growly voice pulls Dean out of his own head. His eyes open, bleary and unfocused as he tries to look at a piece of art on the opposite wall of the hall, his fingers flexing where they’ve landed on Castiel’s shoulders.

“Hm?” That’s about all he can offer right now. 

“May I…” Castiel’s hands slide down Dean’s thighs, fingers applying iron-heavy pressure to the outside of his pants that seeps down into his kneecaps and threatens to weaken them completely. 

Dean’s rational brain is offline. His lizard brain takes over, base instinct telling him that Castiel wants to get, heh, _handsy_ with him, and while he wonders if he’s ready, that lizard part of him is zipping out from under its desert rock and flinging itself directly into the sun. 

“Please,” is what Dean replies. He’s not quite sure what, specifically, he’s agreeing to, but he also trusts Castiel to not take it too far. 

Both of Castiel’s hands move to undo Dean’s jeans, shimmying them down his thighs with minimal effort. His huge, hot palm cups Dean’s erection through his underwear, applying heady and delicious pressure to his cock and balls, fingers squeezing the entirety of his package pleasantly. If Rational Dean were present, he’d compare it to the last time a woman handled his junk, but Lizard Dean can only focus on the here and now and how fucking perfect it is. Castiel handles him with expert care and precision. He keeps it outside of Dean’s boxers, which is like, alright, but also kinda frustrating, but also still surprisingly good. 

Though it’s probably only this great because it’s Cas, c’mon. 

Castiel’s mouth moves to Dean’s neck. He noses up into the bolt of his jaw to get his head to turn so he can start peppering wet, sucking kisses to the slope. They’re not teenagers, so Dean knows he’s safe from hickeys, but Lizard Dean really wants Castiel to just bruise his throat up so bad he can’t move it for a week. Castiel’s teeth scrape, his tongue strokes firm and strong, Jesus, how is his tongue that muscular?

Dean exhales sharply and inhales just as quickly. What is breathing? He can’t remember.

Castiel’s hand continues rubbing him through the thin material of his underwear. The heat gets trapped between his palm and his dick, the friction delicious and better than anything Dean’s felt in the last decade, he’s pretty sure. He spreads his legs a little, gripping tight to Castiel’s shoulders when his rollerblades threaten to take him away on wobbly ankles. But Castiel’s body is firm and strong, pinning him against the wall. Teeth on his neck, one hand on his cock, Castiel’s other hand reaches around to Dean’s ass, grabbing a palmful of it and squeezing. 

That’s it. 

A broken cry falls from Dean’s mouth as orgasm overtakes him. He spills into his boxers, feeling the sticky heat spread through the material and totally soak it, his hips jerking minutely as he rides it out. It takes him so off guard, the suddenness and intensity of it, his eyes water and his throat chokes up. Castiel’s hands immediately withdraw, his arms winding around Dean to pull him into a tight hug. Dean automatically returns it, burying his face into Castiel’s neck to hide his tears and his flush and his general messiness, little tremors flitting through his frame. 

Shushing him quietly, Castiel lets him cling. It takes a good two minutes before Dean feels stable enough to pull away, wiping his face and mouth as he does so. He doesn’t want to look in Castiel’s eyes, fuck. What a weird orgasm. That can’t be normal, right? What will Castiel think? Fuck, maybe he’s not cut out for this, maybe he should just be celibate the rest of his life-

“ _Deanka._ ” 

Jolting a little in surprise, he meets Castiel’s eyes without thinking. There’s a little frown on his features, but that’s a relatively normal expression for him. Thumbs swipe under Dean’s eyes, lips press a soft kiss to his forehead, and then Castiel presses a soft kiss to his ear as he speaks.

“Do not feel embarrassed. You are fine.” 

“But I-”

“Shh.” Castiel hushes him a little more firmly than before, pulling back and forcing eye contact. “Do you feel hurt?” Dean shakes his head. “Regret?” Dean hesitates, then shakes his head again, chewing his lower lip as a new wave of tears brims in his eyes. “You are ok. _Ty v bezopasnosti_.” 

Sniffling a little, Dean fights back a hiccup, picking one thing to focus on to calm himself down. “Whussat mean?” 

Finally a little smile curls Castiel’s swollen lips. “It means you are safe with me.”

Nodding a little, Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Can... “ his gaze drops to Castiel’s crotch, which looks to be about as normal as crotches go when they don’t have erections. “You didn’t…” 

“I am not worried about me,” Castiel says. He pulls away from Dean, taking the heat with him. “I take off your skates. We watch movie.” He drops down to the floor, kneeling as he works to get Dean’s rollerblades off. He’d normally complain about the spoiling, but suddenly his energy reserves are at zero percent, so he allows it. When he’s free of his rollerblades Castiel, now taller than him, leans in to kiss his forehead. “Go get a drink.”

Letting out another breath, Dean nods and walks away from Castiel. How freaking weird. What the hell just happened? He’s on autopilot as he goes to the kitchen, opening up the fridge and looking over all of the options. He chooses orange juice, pouring two glasses, then leans against the counter as he sips on his. His gaze catches sight of his open pants and his stained underwear and he lets out a sigh, knowing he has to get out of this mess.

“M’gonna clean up,” he calls out to Castiel.

“ _Khorosho_ ,” Castiel replies in the same tone as ‘ok’, so Dean heads up the stairs.

He thanks his neurotic behavior for packing probably way more underwear than necessary, going to the restroom to clean himself up before pulling on a new pair. He dresses in sweats and makes his way downstairs to see Castiel on the couch, the two glasses of orange juice on the coffee table. Dean’s glass is refilled, and when he comes into sight Castiel turns his gaze towards him, warm, but slightly guarded, like he’s unsure if Dean still likes him after what they just did.

Which, given how Dean reacted, it’s totally feasible for Castiel to be wondering. 

“I uh,” Dean fidgets as he stands next to the couch. “That was weird, and m’sorry. You asked for permission and I gave it to you then ended up freaking out.” 

Castiel’s gaze is heavy as he regards Dean. He pats the space next to him, opening up his body language. “Sit.” 

Dean does. He’s close enough for their knees and thighs to press together, but he’s unsure if Castiel wants him any closer. 

“I don’t know how…” Castiel lets out a breath. “There is lot of English I still need to learn. But… easiest to say is, first time with man intense. Mine, too. You did not… ‘freak out’,” he uses his fingers for air quotes. “You do not need to be embarrassed, Dean. Natural.” 

“You don’t-” he peeks at his boyfriend out of the corner of his eye. “Y’don’t think I’m dumb?”

“Oh, I think you are total idiot,” Castiel says easily, “but not because of sex.”

That causes a bark of laughter to rip from Dean’s throat, surprising him. He then chuckles, reaching up to wipe at his mouth a few times, before he leans into Castiel’s space, pressing his face into his thick, meaty, delicious shoulder. “You’re a dick.” 

Castiel shrugs his other shoulder, picking up the Playstation controller. “You have said before.”

Just like that, normalcy is restored.

Castiel is a fucking wonder.

Dean falls for his stupid ass harder and harder every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spat_ = Sleep  
>  _Toropit’sya_ = loosely, “hurry”
> 
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> hope y'all are staying healthy and sane!


	5. Chapter 5

What a good week. Not too spectacular- Dean’s not dancing in a bed of flowers- but just… good. Everyone is over being sick, customers in the shop aren’t being too asshole-y. He’d left Castiel’s house on Sunday night feeling damn good and more sure of himself than ever. It’s like spending the weekend with Cas was some sort of confidence boost. He digs it. 

On Thursday, there’s a knock on his office door. Looking up to see Charlie in the entry, he greets her with a smile- then immediately feels his gut drop when he sees the guilty look on her face. There goes his good week, he just knows it.

“What did you do.”

“Don’t be mad at me,” Charlie starts.

“Well when you say that it usually means I’m ‘boutta get real mad,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes.

Charlie falls into the cushiony seat on the other side of his desk. “I may have… done something that you won’t like.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow further. Charlie is pretty far out there when it comes to ‘I did something bad’s; one year she planned a surprise birthday party for him and ended up sleeping with the girl he was eyeing, one year she signed him up for a fucking _marathon_ of all things, one year she dragged his ass to a _week’s worth_ of musicals because she had a spare ticket to art’s week-

Look. Charlie’s a great person, his best friend, but when she goes all out and does something to piss him off, she reaches levels that even _Sam_ can’t beat.

And that’s fuckin’ impressive.

Annoying as fuck, but impressive. 

“Spit it out, Charlie,” Dean says gruffly. 

“Well-” she goes for a bright smile, gesturing with her hands that are shaking from nerves. “A customer earlier today asked what I do on the weekends, so I told him about hockey, and he said that’s very interesting, so he asked a few more questions about it, so I answered, and then he said that he has a friend who has a friend whose sister works for the local news station and said she’s looking for stories involving ‘community involvement’ for an upcoming piece, and asked if it would be ok if they came to one of our hockey games and filmed it for a segment and I said yes.” 

If Dean didn’t know Charlie was well as he does, he wouldn’t have been able to understand a word of her rushed speech.

As it is, he feels the anger flushing him from head to toe as a gasket starts swelling in his head. “You _what_.” 

She sends him what she usually thinks of as a ‘please forgive me, I’m cute!’ smile. “Surprise?” 

“Damn it, Charlie!” Dean barks, slamming his hand on the desk. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. The fuckin’ news is gonna film one of our games?”

“Our season opener,” Charlie says meekly, sinking down into the chair. 

Both hands fly to his hair as he slams his elbows down on the desk. This is… this is Hell, right? He’d actually died at Castiel’s on Sunday and has been in limbo until this very moment, this awful, horrible moment, and Charlie isn’t Charlie she’s just Satan in disguise bringing the one thing he never wanted to fruition.

Yes, they sell tickets to their occasional weekend games so that they can put the money back into the park and keep everything clean and funded. Yes, they give back to the community as well as the parks. 

But _fuck no_ has the news ever been involved or even caught wind of it!

And here Charlie is! Opening her mouth! And saying _yes_ to something Dean would have immediately said no to!!

“Get out.” 

Tears brim in Charlie’s eyes, “Dean, I-”

“Not now.” Dean says harshly, lifting his head to level her with his angry scowl. “I’m so fuckin’ mad at you, Charlie. Get out before I say something I regret.” 

Standing up, she wrings her apron in her hands, collecting all sorts of flour over her wrists and fingers. “I love you?”

“Love you too. Now _scram_.” 

She high tails out of his office. He gets up, slams his door shut, and grabs the Nicolas Cage throw pillow off of the cushy chair to bury his face in to muffle his subsequent scream. 

How! Is he supposed to deal! With this!

As if on some fucking scripted cue, his phone rings. He stomps over to where it’s laying innocently on the desk, picking it up to accept the call. “This better be fucking good.” 

“Ah,” Castiel’s voice sounds mildly surprised. “I can call back.” 

“Cas,” Dean slumps into his chair, elbows on the armrests as he puts a palm over his eyes. “I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it. This is it. This is the last straw. This is what finally pushes me over the edge into murder.” 

“I’m sure it is not that bad,” Castiel continues in his mild tone of voice. 

“Are you-” Dean sits up in his chair, pointing his finger angrily at his desk since no one’s here to receive it. “I spend so much of my time flying under the radar and Charlie just goes and _blows_ it! I just wanna lead a boring old nearly middle-aged life with other nearly middle-aged people without drawing any attention!”

“And Charlie has drawn attention?” 

“ _Yes!_ ” Dean slumps back into his chair again. “The fricken _news_ is gonna be at our season opener, _filming_ for broadcast.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel seems entirely unconcerned. That gasket swollen in the back of Dean’s mind threatens to go off at any second, all dependent on what Castiel says next. “It was not right of her to go behind your back.” 

Dean deflates. His gasket returns to regular size, even cooling down a bit. 

“If she had asked before agreeing, would you say yes?” 

“I dunno,” Dean says, pouting now as he swivels in his chair. “Maybe. The publicity _would_ be good. Can sell more tickets and make more money to put back into the park.” 

“ _Da_. Reasonable.”

The way he pronounces ‘reasonable’ has Dean letting out a little chuckle without permission. Clearing his throat, he sighs. “I dunno, man. Just… Charlie’s got a knack for doin’ shit to make me lose my mind.” 

“Does she do on purpose?” 

Dean thinks about it, then scrubs a hand over his mouth, starting to feel the guilt creep in. “I don’t… think so. I mean- a lot of the stuff she does she either does it ‘cause she doesn’t think it’d bother me, or she thinks she’s got my back and it turns out that I didn’t want anything to do with it.” 

“Charlie have good heart,” Castiel says decisively. “She never intend to hurt you on purpose. She is good friend. Perhaps be more forgiving.” 

He’s right. He’s fucking right and Dean knows it and Charlie knows it and he’s just being the biggest fucking dick in the world because something minorly inconvenienced him when he wasn’t expecting it and God damn, he’s just got control issues, ok? Which he is _totally_ aware of and yet has no idea how to loosen the ropes so that he can just ‘go with the flow’ or whatever the ‘normal’ people do every single damn day of their lives.

Phew.

He’s still a little revved up.

“Talk to the team on Saturday. Ask how they feel. Then make judgment call. It is your game, Dean. You make rules, they follow. This no different.” 

Dean flops forward to thunk his forehead against the table. “I will.” 

“Are you calm?” 

“Kinda.”

“Good. I will help make your day better, but I must go. _Da svidaniya_ , Deanka.” 

“Bye,” he replies, put out that Castiel is ending the phone call so quickly.

Two minutes later, his phone vibrates with a text. Unlocking the screen, he sees it’s from Castiel. He opens up their thread, then immediately feels his mouth go dry and his cock go hard. It’s a picture Castiel must have taken that morning, fresh out of the shower, dripping wet with his dark hair in attractive squiggly lines over his forehead. He’s naked save for a towel slung low on his waist, admirable hip bones on display, a thick, dark thatch of hair peeking up over the edge of the towel and narrowing along the happy trail to his, well, attractive belly button to be honest. The expression on Castiel’s face is sinful, the smirk on his lips the same exact one he tosses to Dean whenever he passes him in the rink. 

Leaning back in his chair, Dean saves the photo to his phone before closing the thread, covering his mouth with his palm and trying to calm his breathing.

Consider his day full of sunshine all over again.

\--

On Saturday Dean calls everyone to the center of the rink for his announcement. He catches Charlie’s eye, giving her a curt nod, to which she nervously smiles and shifts to hide behind Sam.

“Some of you probably know, but Charlie made a connection to the local news station.” Interested chatter breaks out among the group, which Dean hushes with a wave of his hand. “They wanna come film one of our games and broadcast it for a segment they’re doing on community gatherings and hobbies.”

“Which game?” Sam asks.

“The season opener,” Dean says.

Chaos ensues.

“That’s always our worst game!”

“It’s probably gonna rain, we’re cursed!”

“We don’t even have real uniforms!”

“We’re gonna kick our own asses!”

Putting his stick under his armpit, Dean waves both hands and loudly shushes the group. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but this is a good opportunity for us to raise awareness about funding for local parks. Or rather- the lack thereof, thanks to a certain idiot that cut park funding when he sat his big fat ass down in that big fat chair. We’re the only people contributing regularly and we only do it for this park. How many other parks in the surrounding areas don’t get the funding they need?” 

The group goes quiet as they contemplate.

“It’s scary,” he continues. “It’s nerve-wracking to know that we’re gonna be watched not only by a paying audience, but by audiences at home, too. All we gotta do is put on a good show. Let ‘em know how passionate we are. Let ‘em know that we come out here to have fun and blow off steam and play a damn good game of hockey. Alright? Man, probably the most stressful thing _is_ the fact we don’t have uniforms.” 

“I take care of uniform,” Castiel butts in. “No worry.” 

Dean waves a hand towards Castiel, “Alright, biggest concern erased.” He takes a breath, then braces himself as he says, “What concerns do _y’all_ have?” 

It’s quiet. Surprisingly, no one has anything to say. 

“I think it’ll be fun,” Jo says.

“I’ll curl my hair,” Meg says dryly.

“That game’ll have good energy, brother,” Benny says.

Gordon and Lucifer exchange devilish looks, while Gordon rolls his eyes and nods stiffly towards Dean.

Jack, beautiful innocent Jack, says, “We’ll have to sing the national anthem!” 

Balthazar looks an odd sort of pleased, then starts talking to Meg about getting their hair cut before their television debut.

The group once again dissolves into chatter. Sam pushes Charlie so that she rolls on her skates towards Dean, making meaningful mouth and eye movements behind her back as she does so. Dean shoots him a glare, then sends a small, soft smile down at his best friend.

“Hey, Charles.” 

“Hey,” she says, staring at his chest.

Rolling his eyes, Dean reaches out to wrap her up in a hug. “You really make me mad sometimes, y’know?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice muffled by his shirt. 

“S’alright. I think I get why you do some of the stuff you do to me.” 

She nods, red ponytail bouncing. He kisses the top of her head, then pushes her out so she rolls away from him.

“Alright, break!” Dean barks. “Assemble teams. We still got a game to play today.” 

The teams break up. Castiel makes a deadly circle around Dean, already in the mindset as he sends him a cocky smirk.

“Do not think I will go easy on you, Dean.” 

Dean sends him a wolfish grin in return. “Wouldn’t dream of it, asshole.” 

\--

How did Dean forget how fucking hot Cas is in the rink? Last weekend they hadn’t played hockey at all due to weather and moods, so that’s only one weekend out of a fuckton since Castiel joined, but apparently it was enough for Dean to completely forget about how cocky and rude he gets when he’s playing. 

Cocky and rude doesn’t equate to something bad, by the way.

Castiel barks orders at his team in Russian. Dean’s pretty sure that, surprisingly, Lucifer and Victor understand them to some degree - after a year of hearing the same orders one learns what they mean. Balthazar always rolls his eyes, never intimidated by Castiel, Meg usually ignores him, and perfect, pure Jack always replies with “ _Da, trenor!_ ” which is probably the most useful phrase any of them could learn. 

What he does yell in English gets Dean tingling all over, especially when he can hear them clearly. The rink is two-thirds the size of a regulation rink, since they basically poured it themselves and had to fit it into this area of the park, but it’s still huge. On the other side of the rink Dean can only hear Castiel yelling. When Castiel is closer, though, Dean can hear _what_ he’s yelling. 

“Stick down!”

“Speed!”

“Pass!”

“Block!”

“No fight!”

Though, he pretty much always dissolves into yelling in Russian at everyone. Some cuss words are universal, y’know. Especially when said in a certain tone of voice. Castiel’s normally calm and placid demeanor (which, Dean now knows _is_ his normal, not this drill sergeant in the rink) flies out the window the second he gets competitive.

It’s still hot as hell.

Castiel scores on Dean and circles around his net, leaning in close with that dastardly smirk and saying, “You like when I put it in?” 

Dean nearly falls on his face. 

Castiel almost cackles as he skates away. The players convene at center ice, then fan out as they play, Dean’s eyes on everyone but his ears distracted. Castiel is especially aggressive today. He even pulls Lucifer aside at one point and grills him down to charcoal, his half-Russian, half-English words letting everyone know what he really thinks about the guy’s attitude. It’s nothing new to everyone else, but for Castiel to actually call him out on his bullshit suddenly puts everyone on edge.

He’s the one to put Lucifer in the penalty box.

Usually Sam plays ref, since he’s the most level-headed out of all of them, so for Castiel to actually throw one of his own players out has people moving a bit more cautiously. Even Balthazar stows his shit, which Dean has _never_ seen before. 

The game goes on. 

Castiel never lets Lucifer back in.

Dean’s team ends up winning, 3-1. When his team skates over to him for the celly he joins in, the adrenaline rush of such an intense game zipping through them all, flushing their cheeks and brightening their eyes and loosening their lungs. They jump together in a circle and sing the national anthem, most of them screaming it. The excitement dies down only a fraction before they’re all dispersing, laughing and chatting and high-fiving the other team. He watches Castiel skate over to Lucifer, leaning over the wall of the rink so he can speak to him privately about something. 

Lucifer looks annoyed, but the way he nods in resignation is honest. They shake hands, Castiel hauling Lucifer up out of his seat with impressive strength, slapping him on the back and saying something a bit louder in Russian. 

Dean finally realizes he’s been half-hard for the entire game. 

As they all pull off their gear and tuck away their equipment, Dean takes a little longer. Everyone hauls away in their cars, Sam riding with Charlie, planning on their usual meetup at Denny’s. Castiel sits next to Dean on the bench so he can take care of his own stuff, their knees knocking as they pull off their skates and their pads. 

“ _Khoroshaya igra_ ,” Castiel says, “ _otlichno sygrana_.” He puts his skates in his bag. When he smiles at Dean his cheeks are flushed from exertion, eyes bright, hair wild from the wind. “Good game, Dean. Well played.” 

Blushing, Dean shrugs and puts his skates in his own bag. “Well, you sacked one of your own players, so that kinda helped.” 

“His attitude not right, today,” Castiel says thoughtfully. 

“Is his attitude ever right?” Dean chuckles.

“Some days he… focus better,” the man replies, clearly trying to find the right words. “Today he not have fun. So he not play well. So, I don’t play him.” 

Dean frowns a bit. “He ok?” 

Castiel nods. “Private matter, but he fine after I talk to him.” 

“Ah,” Dean says, suddenly realizing that he really doesn’t know this group of misfits as well as he thought he did. They all lead personal lives outside of the games, some of them never seeing each other outside of Saturdays. Huh. He never sees Victor, Gordon or Lucifer. Hell, he only saw Balthazar because he’s neighbors with Cas. He also rarely sees Meg unless she makes a random appearance with the girls. Jack’s a kid, so obviously they wouldn’t cross paths. 

Everyone else, Dean’s got a personal connection with. 

Huh.

_Huh_. 

“Do not feel guilty for not asking,” Castiel interrupts his thoughts, the psychic bastard. “Saturdays supposed to be… escape. Today, Lucifer could not escape.” 

Rubbing his forehead idly, Dean nods as he stands. They both make their way to his car, putting their items in the popped trunk. Once inside the car, the engine purring beneath them, Dean turns to regard Castiel curiously.

“You never fail to surprise me.”

Castiel arches a brow. “Why?” 

“You just…” he gestures idly with a hand. “I’ve gotten to know you over the past few weeks. You’re soft and sweet, but you’re also scary and intense. You’re good at listening, but you’re also good at talking. You’re so damn reasonable, even when you’re yelling at your team- but now I know you’re yelling at your team ‘cause you know they can do better.” He drums his fingers over the steering wheel. “People got problems and you seem to know how to fix them.”

“Not fix,” Castiel shakes his head. “Change thought. People fix own problems, but sometimes with help.”

Chuckling, Dean sends Castiel a fond smile. “Alright, Gandhi.” 

Castiel smiles wryly in return. “You may call me ‘Cas’.” 

\--

Brunch had been an affair of people daydreaming about their television debut and wondering what they’d say if they get called for an interview; Dean’s temper had calmed considerably and he had even chimed in on a few things. Afterwards Dean and Sam had gone home to change and visit the cemetery. They don’t worry about dressing any sort of nice, but they do stop for flowers on the way. Dean always feels a weird sort of trepidation whenever they decide to go to the cemetery, but this time he feels… alright. They usually visit whenever something big happens in their lives. 

In this instance, Sam had pointed out that Dean should tell mom and dad about Cas. 

And, like, he _should_ , but even six feet under Dean has issues talking about anything same-sex related with his dad. 

So when they arrive at the cemetery and park the car, Dean takes mom’s flowers and sits between their graves, facing mom’s headstone and hating how cold his back feels while it’s turned to dad’s. Sam sits next to him, their knees pressed solidly together. 

And see, this is why he loves the fuck outta Sam. Yeah he can be annoying and a ninny and is always way too up in Dean’s business but… he’s the only one who really _knows_ Dean, knows all of his flaws and secrets, and still loves him unconditionally. In the twenty-ish years since their parents died, they’ve never gotten in a serious fight. They yell, they slam doors, go for car rides… but they always find their way back to each other. Dean’s got a fierce love for his brother that he knows is returned. And it’s always been like that, y’know? And it’s always felt comforting and good, knowing that no matter what bullshit happens in the world, no matter who comes and goes from their lives, no matter the huge scary changes… they’ve had each other’s back. 

As Dean looks at his mother’s grave, these thoughts floating through his head, his eyes burn with tears. Reaching up, he knuckles idly under his eye. Freaking wimp, crying before even saying hello. Sam - dutiful, empathetic Sam - reaches up to gently rub between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says gruffly, voice thick. He sniffles, shrugs off Sam’s hand, then lets out a short breath. “Hey, ma. Been a few weeks since we visited, huh? We got kinda busy.” Sam nudges him with his elbow. Rolling his eyes, Dean corrects himself. “ _I_ been busy. I uh, started seein’ someone and they’re… well, the type of person that I just wanna be around all the time.” 

Talking to their parents like this is therapeutic. It’s always a caveat for telling Sam things he’d never be able to say to his face, which Sam does in turn, because no matter how much Sam says they gotta communicate with each other, even he fails to do so occasionally. Not even half as much as Dean, but still. 

“His name’s Cas and he’s… awesome,” Dean says, allowing himself to smile. “He’s good lookin’ and kinda weird but I’d say that I’ve finally figured out my ‘type’, heh.”

“‘Cause you’re good looking and weird,” Sam says with a small snigger.

Dean puffs his chest out. “Thank you.” They share a grin, then Dean puts his gaze back on the ornate headstone that he and Sam had taken forever to choose. “He’s older, five years or so, super successful. He’s an immigrant from Russia. Dunno what happened to him over there, but it was… somethin’ bad, I can tell. But no matter what happened to him he’s got, like, this energy… this _mindset_.” He tilts his head back to look up at the clear Spring sky. “He’s been good for me, ma. He’s been good for all of us, I think.” Sam nods in his peripheral. “Anyway, we’re getting pretty serious, so Sammy thought I should tell y’all about him.” He wipes idly at his nose. “If things go good, I wanna introduce him to you guys.” 

Sam’s hand returns to pat him warmly on the back. “Got anything to say to dad?” 

Dean looks at their father’s grave over his shoulder, frowning softly. “Not…” he turns around again, staring at the flowers in his lap, so cheerful and pretty and perfect for sprucing up a grave. “Not right now.” 

“That’s fine,” Sam reassures him. His hand is still on Dean’s back, big and warm and comforting. 

“What news do you bring?” Dean asks, straightening up a little bit and wiping at his nose again. 

“Well,” Sam drops his hand, holding the flowers in his lap meant for dad. “I decided to take the job offer from Cas.” 

“What?” Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, before a smile breaks out over his features. “Seriously? Dude! When did you say yes?” 

“Yesterday,” his brother replies with a matching grin. “I put in my two weeks at the firm and I’ll be working with Cas right after.”

“Dude!!” Dean says again, laughing and allowing himself a moment of weakness as he wraps his brother up in a tight, side-hug. Sam returns it briefly, and when they break apart Dean beams at him. “I was kinda hoping you would but I didn’t _really_ think you’d say yes.”

“We discussed wages and benefits,” Sam says, his floppy hair waving in the light breeze. “I’ll be making nearly twice as much as I make now with way better benefits.”

Dean whistles. “How can he afford that?”

“His brother fronts a lot of the costs for the clubs,” Sam explains. “You know, the guy that owns like, half the adult film industry?” 

“Oh damn, that’s right,” Dean exhales, then laughs a little, looking towards their mom’s headstone. “Hey, ma. Your youngest son is like, half a pornstar.”

Sam rolls his eyes, nearly rumbling the ground beneath them. “That’s ridiculous-” 

“Hehehehe,” Dean chuckles evilly as he stands, carefully laying the bouquet of flowers on mom’s grave. 

Sam stands up as well, turning around to put dad’s flowers on his grave. “We didn’t forget about you, dad.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean turns to face their father’s grave. “Hey pops.”

Knowing that that’s all Dean’s capable of, Sam crouches down and reaches out to touch their father’s headstone. “I know you heard what we talked to mom about. I’m about to make more money than Dean.” 

Snorting under his breath, Dean wipes his nose and looks off into the distance, hiding his smile behind his mouth. 

“The shop is good, the house is good. We’re just… really good. I know that’s all you wanted for us.” 

Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, Dean starts to walk away as Sam puts the flowers on their dad’s grave. After a few moments Sam catches up; he usually has a few extra words for dad, words that Dean doesn’t care to be privy to. Well- it’s not that he doesn’t _care_ , it’s just that he and dad have never seen eye to eye, and while dad and Sam used to butt heads like freaking rams, Dean was always the disappointment and the mama’s boy so… y’know, he and John never really got along too well despite Dean’s desperate measures to be seen in a good light.

Inside the car, they both take a moment to decompress. After a somewhat tense silence, Sam reaches out to put his hand over Dean’s on the steering wheel, trying to lessen his white-knuckled grip. 

“Hey. It’s alright. We’re done.” 

Leaning forward, Dean puts his forehead on Sam’s hand, closing his eyes tightly to fight the onslaught of emotions. He can usually keep it together when they’re actually at the graves, but the rubber band snaps the instant they get back to the car, every time, without fail. It took Sam a few attempts to figure out how to comfort his brother without crossing the line, but finally he figured out that this one point of contact is pretty much just what Dean needs. Sam’s way more affectionate than Dean, good with hugs and hand holds and all sorts of stuff that make Dean’s gut swirl uncomfortably.

But this, here- him and Sammy and the car and the beautiful quiet of the graveyard…

Dean will never not be thankful for his brother and their relationship.

Sniffling wetly, Dean lifts himself up and wipes at his face. Sam removes his hand from Dean’s. Just like that, they’re back to some semblance of normal.

“I need pie,” Dean says. 

“You’ll need heart medicine before you hit forty,” Sam replies. 

Yes. 

Normal with his brother always manages to bring him back to earth.

\--

On Sunday Dean heads over to Castiel’s for the afternoon. The plan is to watch movies, but Dean’s got an interesting thrum in his veins that he’s not sure how to decipher. In the past he associated this feeling with heading over to a girl’s house to get down n’ dirty, but with Castiel, he’s still… a little whacked out. They’ve already passed the first hurdle - Castiel brought him to orgasm just a week ago - but at the time Castiel hadn’t asked for reciprocation and maybe… yeah, that’s definitely got Dean feeling a certain way. Because what will happen _when_ Castiel asks for reciprocation? What’s Dean gonna do? He knows how to touch his own dick. So- like- he’ll… just do…

???

When Castiel lets him in they don’t even kiss. Which- like- Dean had a suspicion that that’s how they would be. Neither of them are terribly gushy and affectionate like that, save for holding hands and cuddling on the couch. Dean has learned that Castiel doesn’t peck or smooch- he fucking _devours_ , and to be honest Dean’s ok with waiting for _those_ kisses because he likes the way they weaken his knees and fry his brain and…

“Dean?”

Blushing hotly, Dean splutters, “Yep hi hello! ‘Sup!”

Castiel blinks blandly at him, unimpressed. “You seem… occupied.” 

Wrong English, but Dean doesn’t have the heart to correct him. “I uh. I dunno. Havin’ a weird weekend, y’know? News crews, visited mom n’ dad yesterday, now m’here and you’re…” Tilting his head back, he blows a raspberry at the ceiling. “Sorry.” 

“You go to cemetery?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah,” Dean wipes a hand over his face. “Me n’ Sammy usually go when we have news to break. Don’t make too much of a habit of it, it’s kinda depressing going there.” 

“What announcement you make?” Castiel asks. He takes Dean’s hand as Dean kicks off his shoes, leading him to the living room. 

Dean shuffles along behind him, socked feet slipping on the floor. “Uh. Told ‘em about you. Sammy told ‘em that he accepted your job offer.” 

“Ah,” Castiel nods. “Very important news.” 

Quirking a small smile as they sit, Dean shrugs. “I mean, I guess. Coulda waited on my news.” 

“When you introduce us?” Castiel asks, drawing Dean closer to him.

“What?” Dean blinks at him in surprise, feeling his heart try to do too many things at once. “You… wanna meet my parents?”

“When time is right,” Castiel nods, serious as ever. “I would like to meet them.” 

“Woah,” Dean breathes out loud, fascinated. He blushes when he realizes he made that noise out loud. “I mean-” he coughs, shaking his head and waving a hand. “No one- y’know, I mean, like I’ve never really dated someone long enough, or uh, been serious enough with someone to… bring ‘em around mom and dad…” 

“Like I said,” Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “When time is right. No rush.” 

Unable to help the small smile on his features, Dean lets out a small chuckle, feeling his heart return to normal. “Thanks, Cas.” 

“But aside from that…” Castiel shifts so that he can look over Dean’s features. He feels like a bug under a microscope, feeling his cheeks heat up without permission as Castiel’s deep, soulful eyes penetrate him completely.

Penetrate.

Oh, fuck-

“Am I making you nervous?” 

A sweat breaks out on Dean’s brow. “N-no-”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “You lie.” 

“M’not-”

“If something on your mind, Dean, tell me.” 

“I just-”

“No beating bush,” Castiel finally says, final and stern. 

Dean feels his eyes well up. God damn it, he’s a fucking wreck this week. When will the torture end? First nearly taking Charlie’s head off because she sprang something on him, then visiting the cemetery yesterday, the ups and downs going to extremes and now his anxieties about being intimate with Castiel are bubbling and burbling below the surface like some sort of virgin volcano-

“I’m nervous,” he finally confesses. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Castiel. “Last weekend we- you- y’know, and then you didn’t want anything back, and now I’m here today and you might want me to- y’know- and I’m just nervous ‘cause I don’t- know? I don’t wanna-? Disappoint you or whatever or make you feel like I’m not into you.” Well. That was a jumble. He can’t sort out his thoughts, though, so that’s about as good as it’s gonna get, so hopefully Castiel can dissect his thoughts and words. 

“Oh, Deanka,” Castiel says softly. Hands cup Dean’s face, causing his eyes to open and see Castiel’s frown and droopy, warm eyes filled with sadness. “I have no expectation for anything like that. I ask permission, you give. If you don’t give, I respect.” His face tenses in the specific places that Dean has learned means he’s struggling with putting his thoughts into English. “Work both ways. If you ask permission I give. If I don’t give, you respect.” 

Well put that way, it’s a fucking no-brainer. Like, of course Castiel wouldn’t take advantage of him, and just as well, Dean wouldn’t take advantage of _him_ , and Jesus he’s an idiot.

“I just-” he licks his lips, pressing into Castiel’s touch and closing his eyes again. “I know it’s stupid to worry ‘bout that but I just- I know you’re not like that, Cas, an’ I’m puttin’ this on you…” 

“Anxiety never make sense,” Castiel says softly. His thumbs swipe under Dean’s eyes, collecting wetness. God damn it, he hasn’t cried all week and now he’s turning into a fucking baby in front of the one person he wanted to not be a baby to. “I’m not offended, Dean. Your worries… valid.” 

His bottom lip wobbles when he opens his eyes. “What if I’m never ready?” 

Castiel shrugs, his expression still soft and inviting. “Then we never do anything.” The corner of his lip quirks minutely. “Sex is not ‘make or break’, Deanka.”

God he feels like such an idiot. His breathing hitches and increases, and ah, yep, he’s not sure if he’s ever pinned this weird swirling in his gut and chest as anxiety before, but now that Castiel has called it out yep, that’s totally what this is. Great. Discovering it this late in life is a real bitch. 

“ _Uspokoysya_ ,” Castiel hushes him softly, drawing him forward. Dean curls up on his lap like a child, but if feels so good, and oh man, here comes the tidal wave. 

It’s that same panic that overcame him after orgasm last weekend. Something about Castiel breaks down all of his defenses, just absolutely obliterates him and leaves him a mess. But that same thing also cradles him in safety and surrounds him with love and affection and fixes the ugly mess that he turns into and fuck. Fuck, how did he get so lucky with Castiel? He’s never felt this way with anyone before. Never let his guard down like this, never let himself show weakness. Castiel carries the burden with grace and never complains or even seems like he’s faking _not_ complaining. 

Oh, man. 

Dean’s snotting all over his shirt. 

What a mess.

“I know it’s scary,” Castiel says into Dean’s hair, before kissing his head softly. “You can talk to me.” 

“I don’t even know the words,” Dean whines, voice muffled in Castiel’s shirt.

“I know the feeling,” Castiel says wryly.

Suddenly Dean’s laughing so hard he’s crying for a different reason. He’s laughing and keeping his face buried in Castiel’s chest because he feels safe and relieved and still like an idiot but less hate-y about it. Castiel’s arms around him are heavy and muscly and secure and make him feel small and protected and it’s a weird sensation for grown ass man, someone not tiny at all, to feel like that with another man. 

Super weird.

Super… awesome.

Castiel’s chuckles rumble his chest and harmonize with Dean’s laughter. After a few minutes Dean finally sits up, wiping at his face messily and letting out a few shaky breaths to try and give his lungs some relief. When he looks at Castiel the unadulterated _emotion_ he sees on the other man’s face catches him off guard, knocks the breath back out of his lungs, and reassures him that if he could choose anyone to have a gay panic with… it’d be this man, right fucking here. 

“I think I love you,” Dean blurts. 

All laughter subsides, Castiel’s head tilting as his eyes sparkle with something incredible, his pink lips still curled slightly. “You think?” 

Embarrassment floods Dean’s body, replacing any and all anxiety. “I mean- holy fuck I didn’t mean to say that out loud-” 

Castiel reaches up, covering Dean’s mouth with his huge fucking palm, halting any other words and apologies that try to come tumbling out of his mouth. His strong fingers press firmly into Dean’s cheek, his thumb an anchor on the other, his other hand on the small of Dean’s back to pull him closer and keep him from floating off. 

“No take backs,” Castiel says, surprising the fuck out of Dean. 

While he doesn’t say the same thing back to Dean, something shifts between them, something heavy and beautiful and with Castiel’s hand pressed against his mouth, Dean feels whiplash from the charge that suddenly passes between them. How many emotions can he feel in the span of an hour? Seriously. He’s gonna pass out. 

Castiel removes his hand from his mouth and he immediately sucks in a breath, unaware that he’d been holding it. White spots dot his vision briefly, his heart rate elevates, his cock hardens in his pants. 

Woah.

“How do you do that?” he asks, dazed. 

“I have experience with crybaby men,” Castiel says, wicked humor flashing in his eyes dashing any offense Dean could feel. “I know how to handle. I am… expert.” 

Thinking about Castiel with other men almost makes Dean uncomfortable, but curiosity wins out. “You ever a crybaby?” 

“Sometimes,” Castiel says, shrugging and nodding. “Do you learn by example?” 

Dean nods, fascinated. 

“Then when I’m crybaby, you handle.” 

Heat flashes through Dean’s core. “Like BDSM? Dom and sub stuff?”

“If you want to label,” Castiel reaches up to stroke under Dean’s chin. “Though I don’t think I am dom or sub. Just… _podderzhka_. Supportive.” 

Some relief floods Dean’s system. He’s already bouncing back and forth from gay panic to being alright, he’s not sure he could handle something like a BDSM relationship. Phew. His relief must show on his face, because Castiel chuckles and pats his cheek softly.

“Relax, Deanka. We are us. That is all we need to be.” 

Leaning forward to bury his face into Castiel’s neck, Dean huffs, a mixture of embarrassment and calm and… well, y’know, _everything_ flashing through him briefly. “Sorry I’m a mess.” 

“You only mess if I can’t clean.” 

Snorting, Dean sighs fondly. “There you go again, Gandhi.” 

“Not Gandhi,” Castiel says. “I am me. You are you. And we… fit.”

In more ways than one, Dean knows. 

After a few more minutes of Dean doing his best impression of a cat curled up on Castiel’s lap, he shifts to break apart from him, feeling a chill but fighting the urge to climb back to what he now considers a safe place. Stretching a little, rubbing his face and his thighs and shaking out his hands, he looks towards the kitchen. 

“Can I uh… have some orange juice? S’what you had me drink last time.” 

Castiel stands as well, sliding his hand over the small of Dean’s back as he passes. “I fix lunch. You,” he sends Dean a meaningful look, “go take shower, find clothes in my drawer.”

Dean wants to argue and say he’s perfectly clean and capable of wearing his own clothes, but the thought of wearing something of Castiel’s fills him with some sort of weird glee, so he agrees to the order easily. He heads upstairs, rifles through Castiel’s neatly organized drawers to find sweatpants and a sweatshirt, then moves into the bathroom. He cranks the dial to hot hot hot, using Castiel’s body wash and leaving his hair dry, much like last time he used this shower but… this time taking his time. His hands pass over his body in a mimicry of a massage, really working Castiel's scent into his skin, loosening the tension in his muscles. Eventually he gets a little feverish from the heat of the shower, so he exits and uses a hanging towel to dry himself off. He takes his time with this, too, making sure to get every last droplet, wondering what fabric softening Castiel uses to keep his towels so fluffy and soft. 

He dresses in the sweats and sweatshirt, enjoying how loose the sweatshirt is in his shoulders and how cropped the sweats are above his ankles, a reminder of the differences in their bodies. He looks in the mirror, wiping away the fog and examining himself. It’s been a while since Castiel had said he didn’t really have a preference on body type, so Dean has been less critical of himself, not pinching at his sides or back whenever he catches sight of himself in a mirror. 

What he sees right now is a well taken care of man wearing his boyfriend’s clothes because… well, Castiel likes him for _him_.

That itself is an amazing confidence boost.

He doesn’t linger on that too long, though, because it’s too easy to fall back into old habits. Exiting the bathroom, he folds up his clothes and puts them on Castiel’s dresser before heading back downstairs. As soon as he’s free of Castiel’s scent clouding up the air in the steam, something delicious hits his nose. And, alright, there’s lots of reasons to like Castiel, y’know, but like… what a _chef_. It’s all been Russian food and he’s honestly surprised, y’know, trying to not sound like a dick here, that he’s liked everything Castiel has fed him. He’s sure that everything so far has been pretty tame - every culture has food that make foreigners go “what the fuck” - but Castiel hasn’t served him those things so… he’s still in the green.

In the kitchen Castiel has a countertop grill set up on the kitchen table, the cord stretched across the kitchen where it’s plugged into an outlet in the wall. The heavenly smell is coming from what look like kebabs and oh, fuck yeah, Dean is totally onboard for this. 

“Whassat?” Dean asks, picking up the glass of orange juice on the other side of the table and taking a deep drink.

Castiel eyes how the clothes sit on Dean’s body, the weight of his gaze springing goosebumps on his hot skin before he replies. “ _Shashlyk._ Steak, green pepper, red onion and…” he frowns down at the kebabs, then points to a zucchini. “ _Tsukkini_.”

Chuckling a little, Dean nods. “Zucchini. Kinda neat it’s almost the same. They look delicious, sweetheart.” 

Sending Dean a small smile, Castiel rotates the kebabs. “How do you feel?”

“Loads better,” Dean says, meaning it totally and wholly. He has a seat, settling in and watching Castiel’s strong, capable hands cook the kebabs. “I dunno how you do it, but you get me sorted way quicker and better than anything else in the world.” 

“I’m glad,” Castiel says. “Set table, please.” 

Dean gets up, surfing the cupboards as he tries to remember where everything is. He sets two spots, grabs an extra glass for Castiel, then brings the bottle of orange juice to the table. Castiel looks at everything, then gestures towards the fridge. “ _Smetana_ , please. Sour cream.”

“Yeah?” Dean returns to the fridge, opening it up and looking in. He rifles around a few different containers, opening them up before he finally finds what looks like sour cream. “Blue container?”

“ _Da_ ,” Castiel says.

“Huh,” Dean muses, bringing it to the table. “Never thought about sour cream on kebabs. Usually some sort of barbecue sauce.”

“I marinate yesterday,” Castiel says. “Good plain. But,” he sends Dean a playful grin. “Russians _love_ smetana. Like you love ketchup.” 

“Ooooh,” Dean nods. “Gotcha.” He gets a spoon for the sour cream, settling himself back down in his seat. Castiel looks like a pro grilling the kebabs, even though Dean’s never really seen a countertop grill before; he wonders what Castiel looks like in front of an actual barbecue, sun on his hair, apron covering his clothes, the veins in his forearms standing out as he flips burger patties… 

He’s brought out of his thoughts by Castiel putting two kebabs on his plate. “Would you like anything else? Small lunch,” he says thoughtfully.

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head, sending Castiel a bright smile. “This’ll fill me up.” 

Castiel looks thoughtfully at Dean’s plate. “It is customary to eat… big meals. But I do not want to-” he taps his fingers idly on the table. “...overload you with food. Our cultures very different. It is hard for me to remember to… ‘tone it down’,” he uses finger quotes, “as you say.” 

“I mean,” Dean shrugs, spooning some sour cream onto his plate, “everything you’ve cooked me has been delicious. What’s, uh,” he puts the spoon back, looking at Castiel, “your traditions? For food?” 

“Lots of it,” Castiel says with a chuckle. He spoons sour cream onto his own plate. “We eat lots. Heavy foods. Meat and bread and potatoes.”

“Is-” Dean looks at their food, suddenly worried. “Am I, like, stifling you? I don’t want you to change your habits or traditions just ‘cause you’re hosting me.” 

“I think it is good to blend,” Castiel says assuredly. “Feed you good food without bloating you or offering vodka. Though,” his smile turns playful, “it is very hard to not offer alcohol.” He dips the first part of his kebab into the sour cream, rotating it to coat nearly the whole thing. Dean’s fascinated. And slightly… disgusted. Is that what Americans look like with ketchup and - well, ranch? Wow. Castiel takes a big bite, chewing as he thinks. “You have been very kind in eating what I cook.”

“Uh, ‘cause it’s delicious,” Dean says, being more conservative in his sour cream roll. He eats his first bite, humming at the taste. It’s rich, but it’s super tasty. Putting sour cream on everything might be dangerous, though. He’s definitely a ketchup man. Tomatoes are vegetables… therefore they’re healthy, right? Right. 

“I know you worry about your body,” Castiel says, catching Dean off guard. “This why I tell you not to worry. I plan on feeding you a lot.”

“Tryna get more cushion for the pushin’?” Dean says before he thinks about it. He blushes hotly, then tries to backpedal immediately. “That was- fuck, Sammy would kill me for sayin’ that. I meant! You know- I’ve got uhhhhh body image issues but I think- y’know, we stay active enough and it’s not like- well- I wanna eat… what you cook, so I mean- what I’m sayin’ is- I think I understand why you uh… why you said you didn’t care what my body looks like. Not that you want me to overeat or whatever but ‘cause you know you eat heavier foods and I’m not used to it-” Shutting himself up, Dean stares at his plate in consternation, wondering why he’s such a fucking idiot. 

“Deanka,” Castiel chuckles softly. “You are almost forty. I _am_ forty. I lost ideal body type long ago. I hope you do not think I am so shallow.” 

Peeking up at Castiel through his lashes, Dean’s relieved to see the humor on his features. Sighing, Dean stabs his kebab into the next splotch of sour cream. “I don’t. I guess I just- y’know, I was super fit for a real long time. Chicks couldn’t leave me alone. Then… I dunno, it’s like overnight I couldn’t do as many push-ups and got winded after four laps around the rink.”

“That is the beauty of your body,” Castiel says, surprising Dean. “It has done well. It is still strong, but it telling you to slow down. Take care of yourself.”

Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, Dean sighs. “Stop making so much sense of my anxieties and shit.” 

“Pardon me, I will stop,” Castiel says dryly.

“No you won’t,” Dean sighs again.

“You are right,” Castiel says primly. “If you ever need workout partner, let me know.”

Dropping his gaze down to Castiel, Dean tries to decide if there’s a double entendre he’s missing. “How do _you_ stay so fit?”

“I have equipment in garage. I jog. And Dean, like you I am not how I was ten years ago.”

“Fitter n’ me,” Dean grumbles, then hums. “You really meant an exercise partner, huh.” 

“What else I mean?” Castiel asks innocently.

Yep. There _was_ a double entendre, the bastard.

“Do you need spotter?” Castiel ramps up the innocence, eyes wide and brows raised. 

Dean lifts two fingers, pointing them at Castiel and then to his own eyes, then back again. “Don’t think I don’t see your game, buddy.” 

Castiel smirks as he shrugs and picks up his kebab again. “I could bench press you.” 

“ _Stop!_ ”

Just like that, everything’s back to normal.

Dean’s starting to get the hang of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Da, trenor!_ " - yes coach  
> " _Uspokoysya_ " - calm down


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said this was gonna be all fluff, minimum angst?  
> how about like, half fluff, half plot/angst?  
> no?  
> haha... unless...  
> this chap is small but we are finally starting to see some plot movement. enjoy!

“Ah, Dean! Lovely-” 

Leaning his knees against the closed door of his car, Dean tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying to keep his expression neutral and probably failing colossally. He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in for patience he doesn’t have, then slaps a sarcastic smile on his face as he turns his attention to Balthazar, who is cheerfully heading down the sidewalk straight towards him. 

“So good to catch you. Taking Cassie out, are we?” 

Something about Balthazar really irks Dean. Like, most people have redeeming qualities, right? Like, shit, even _Lucifer_ , one of the biggest dicks in the world and named after Satan, can tell a decent joke and have a strange paternal affection for Jack that occasionally tears people between feeling uncomfortable and feeling kinda fond.

Balthazar? Has _zero_ things good about him. Dean’s glad that Balthazar is on the other team because if he had to deal with him as often as Castiel does he’d blow a gasket and do something dramatic like quit. (But that wouldn’t last long anyway because Saturday hockey is a drug and Dean’s brother is a fucking lawyer, so, trying to get away from that whole thing would be a nightmare.)

“My, my, you do clean up well.” 

Tensing his jaw, Dean tries to not squirm under Balthazar’s blatantly flirtatious voice. He’s dressed up because he _is_ taking Castiel on a date. He’s wearing the closest thing to a suit he has, and even then he hadn’t realized he could put these pieces together until he video chatted Charlie and she made him give her a virtual tour of his closet. He’s wearing khaki chinos, navy and beige boat shoes (with no socks, which he still thinks he might kill Charlie for), a white dress shirt and a navy blazer. He’s pretty much always had these items in his wardrobe but he’s never put them all together and while he was getting dressed he felt like a douche but after looking at himself in the mirror for a few minutes and even his stupid brother complimenting him, his self-esteem skyrocketed. 

“What do you want?” Dean finally says. 

Balthazar’s eyes dip towards the bouquet in Dean’s hands consisting of lavender colored spring lilies. “You’re so American. Flowers?”

“Yep,” Dean pops the ‘p’. “Get on with it, teacup, I gotta knock on that door in three minutes.” 

“Well,” Balthazar is dressed as he normally is, in relaxed jeans and a droopy v-neck. He slides his hands into his pockets, “I was just wondering what your intentions were with our favorite Russki.” 

Dean narrows his eyes, then lifts up a finger. “One: Is that PC? Two: why the fuck do you care? He doesn’t like you, dickweed.” 

Humming, Balthazar looks towards Castiel’s front door. “You don’t know anything about him, Dean.” 

It’s a simple statement, straight and to the point, and it shouldn’t jab through Dean like it does. “I know he’s a good dude,” he says, almost defensively. “He’s kind and selfless and way outta your league, buddy.”

“If you’re worried about me ‘moving in on your man’,” Balthazar says, lazily slipping a hand out of his pocket to make finger quotes, “surely you should know by now that I’m uninterested in him romantically. He’s too…” he squints, trying to find a word, “growly.” 

“Then why is your nose in our business all the time?” Dean snaps. 

“Because, Dean,” blue eyes, so much chillier and colder than Castiel’s land on Dean’s, “as I said: you know nothing about him. Tell me, has he told you why he left Russia?” 

Frowning, Dean does his best to rack his brain. Castiel hadn’t given him much details at all, and he hates being put on the spot like this so Balthazar can see just how much Castiel _hasn’t_ told him. “Just… that he had some trouble there. ‘Cause… their views on homosexuals are different. And his parents died, and Gabriel offered to help him out here.”

“Mmm,” Balthazar nods slowly, regarding Dean with nothing friendly or compassionate in his gaze. “There’s a version of events that reflect those things.” 

Not liking the way that sounds, Dean loses his patience and throws his free hand up in the air, the plastic around the bouquet crinkling as he tightens his other hand in a fist. “What do you _want_ , Balthazar? Either you tell me what you wanna say without bein’ all cryptic, or you get outta my sight, because I _will_ knock you flat.” 

Putting both his hands up in supplication, Balthazar sends Dean a faint smile. “Have it your way.” He starts backing up, then puts his hands in his pockets and turns around to head back to his own home. “Have a lovely date.” 

Staring after Balthazar’s back, Dean makes sure to watch him until he heads up his sidewalk and into his own house. Huffing out a breath, Dean turns towards Castiel’s front door, trying to calm his racing heart as he heads up. Why did Balthazar think it was so important to come up to Dean and talk about stuff like that? Castiel’s private life is his own business. Plus, any time it comes up it’s clear that his past makes him sad or uncomfortable, and the last thing Dean wants to do is make him talk about it.

Then again… Chewing his lip, Dean looks down the road in the direction of Balthazar’s house.

Why does Balthazar seem to know more than Dean?

The door clicks and swings open, Castiel nearly mowing Dean over. They both jolt in surprise and let out twin embarrassing noises, then laugh like idiots as they catch their breath.

“Sorry, Dean,” Castiel says, eyes bright. “I was working on my tie and didn’t see you pull up. I just looked out window- were you waiting long?” 

Mollified by Castiel’s frazzled appearance, his hair wild and skin flushed, Dean smiles small, pushing Balthazar far, far from his mind. Holding up the lilies, Dean shakes his head. “Nah, sweetheart. Just got here.” 

Castiel’s eyes soften as he takes the bouquet, the cello wrap crinkling. “ _Spasibo_ , Deanka. I will put them away before we leave.” 

“Sure,” Dean says. He steps into the entryway while Castiel moves towards the kitchen, holding the lilies in one hand as he starts opening cupboards with the other. “I uh. Saw Balthazar just now.” 

Castiel’s shoulders tense slightly, but his expression is neutral as he turns around with a vase in his free hand. He starts filling it with water, an odd tone to his voice when he asks, “What did he want?” 

“The usual,” Dean says with a shrug. “Antagonized me. Flirted with me. Suggested I shouldn’t be with you.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel unwraps the cello and tosses it into the bin, carefully arranging the lilies in the vase. “He is… committed.” 

“Kinda weird, huh?” Dean lets out a little laugh, gauging Castiel’s reaction. “He seems pretty, uh, obsessed with you.”

“He think he is more important than he is,” Castiel replies swiftly and easily. Once he’s satisfied with the display of lilies on his counter, he makes his way towards Dean. Now his outfit is visible, and Dean feels his throat close up a bit. He’s wearing black slacks and a black blazer with a sapphire-colored dress shirt and an emerald green eye, everything _very_ nicely fitted on his thick frame. Hoo boy. How does Dean ever forget how stunning the man is? “Shall we go?” 

Dean pulls himself back to earth with claws, sending Castiel a slightly nervous, but affectionate smile. “Yeah. Your carriage awaits.” 

Arm in arm, they walk down to Baby. Sending one last, curious glance in the direction of Balthazar’s home, Dean tries to push all the weirdness from his mind. 

He has a date to woo.

\--

Being low maintenance as he is, Dean’s thankful that Castiel is pretty lowkey himself. Their date consisted of dinner at the Roadhouse with Ellen, Bobby’s wife, smacking Dean upside the head for not showing his face for two months, and Jo, sassing them while she served them and also kicking Dean under the table a few times. Castiel couldn’t see it, but he definitely knew it was happening. It was a good date. An amazing date. That warm, comforting feeling Dean gets when he’s alone with Castiel in either of their homes carries on in public, too, and boy. Not gonna lie, Dean was pretty worried that things would be… dunno, _different_ for some reason, going out socially. Hockey on Saturdays is a totally different ballpark (hockey rink?) than going out on a _real_ date and being seen by both strangers and friends. 

Anyhoo. Their date was awesome. Nothing crazy; dinner, drinks, a walk around the area to try and digest their massive burgers and all you can eat fries. Dean dropped Castiel off at his house, they made out in his car like teenagers, and then Castiel went home because even though he owns his own business, he’s still responsible, up and at ‘em before eight every morning. 

Dean doesn’t think about Balthazar’s weird, cryptic words.

A couple weeks pass. Dating Castiel is… fucking amazing all the time, not that Dean is surprised. The man is low maintenance and rather easy to please, which has Dean feeling both comfortable and freaked out all at once. Being in a relationship shouldn’t be this seamless, right? Like- one of them should snore and should get a pillow mashed over their face, one of them should disagree with the other’s opinion so badly they don’t talk to each other for days, one of them should have some sort of awful hygienic thing that drives the other one mad.

Right?

“No, that was just you and Lisa,” Sam says idly. He’s sitting at the breakfast nook poring over some paperwork Castiel had given him earlier in the day. Dean’s kinda jealous that Sam gets to see Castiel during business hours, but he and Dean spend time together both on weekends and weekday evenings so he tries to keep his complaints to a minimum.

Rolling his eyes, he checks on the roast and vegetables in the crockpot. Nearly ready. He returns to the pot on the stove, picking up the masher to start aggressively mushing all the cooked potatoes with a shit ton of butter and milk. “Were we really that bad together?”

“Uh,” he can feel Sam’s disbelieving stare piercing him directly in the gut, “yeah, Dean. And we all told you, like, a million times. But,” some papers shuffle, “you just kept saying ‘she’s bendy!’ and, ‘Ben’s cool’, like those were the only reasons keeping you together.” 

“They were,” Dean confessed. “You know, in the last month or so, we didn’t even have sex.” 

“She was toxic, Dean,” Sam says simply. “She didn’t want you hanging out with Charlie - a lesbian - or Benny - who’s married. Even when you and I had a night in she wanted to be a part of it.” 

“Aw, Sammy, you know we need a chaperone when we’re together,” Dean says coyly, throwing long lashes and coquettish blinks over his shoulder towards his brother.

Bitch face #1003 crosses over Sam’s face. “She was needy and couldn’t stand your independence because she mistook your flirty personality for being disloyal. Remember the grocery store?”

Dean frowns at the mashed potatoes. Lisa had nearly jumped over the counter when the cashier had laughed at one of Dean’s shitty dad jokes. “I remember pretty much everything, Sam.” 

“Anyway, Dean, you need to realize that you and Lisa were a weird anomaly and that _normal_ relationships aren’t like that.” 

“And what about you, guru?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder with an arched brow. “Why is the great Sam Winchester single?” 

“Because I’m career-driven and have a weirdly close relationship with my brother,” Sam says distractedly, putting the end of a pen between his teeth.

Dean’s frown deepens. “Are… are you serious?” 

Sam’s lips quirk slightly, eyes on the documents. “Yeah.”

“About which part?” Dean asks, his voice pitching. 

“Being career-driven,” Sam finally takes pity on Dean, chuckling and putting his pen down and brushing his hair back from his forehead with his fingers. He sends Dean a weird warm brother look, “I’m not looking for anything, Dean. After Jess, I…” he licks his lips, shrugging and looking down at the papers. “I’m fine like this.” 

Dean snorts, looking back at his potatoes to make sure they don’t burn while he mashes them. “She’d want you happy, y’know.” 

“I am happy, Dean,” Sam says emphatically. “I just got my dream job being a humanitarian lawyer, I share a house with my stupid brother that for some reason I can’t live without, I’ve got all my friends. I’m not lacking anything, Dean.” 

Pursing his lips, Dean pulls an empty serving bowl towards him so he can start lopping the mashed potatoes into it with a spoon. “Alright, Sammy. I just worry.” 

“I know,” Sam says. A few moments pass, the sound of Sam putting away all of his lawyer crap accompanying the sound of Dean turning the crockpot to low and starting to set the table. “Hey- Cas has a couple things to talk about tomorrow at the club. Think you can take the day off? Hang out for a bit?”

Dean laughs outright, “You’re asking me to take a day off of work to take a tour around a stripper joint? Dude. As if I’d say no.”

Sam nearly falls off the bench with his eye roll. “Did you hear the part about ‘with Cas’?” 

Flapping a hand around, Dean shrugs and grins as he dishes their plates. “Not important, Sammy. Tomorrow I will be surrounded by beautiful, scantily-clad ladies and it will be for _business_ , not pleasure.” 

Snorting a laugh, Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re an idiot.”

\--

To say that he’s surprised when they enter _Daisy Duke’s_ and don’t immediately have boobs thrown in their face would be an understatement on Dean’s part. To be fair, he’s only been to strip clubs at night, not during the day, so he supposes he didn’t really know what to expect at all. _Daisy Duke’s_ is lit up and posh. There are no dark corners for any seedy business to squirrel away, no suspicious stains anywhere. Hell, the floor is real hardwood - not that vinyl shit - and the walls actually have _art_ on them. Dean looks around in wonder as Sam beelines towards the bar. There are booths and tables, some designed for large groups, some small enough for a single person. The color scheme is greys, purples, and turquoises, unlit candles on nearly every surface. 

Jesus, this place looks like a Michelin restaurant. 

“Dean,” Sam brings him out of his surprise, “over here.” 

The bar top is polished and beautiful, the selection of liquor on the wall stacked prettily on glass shelves in front of a mirror. A glance up at the ceiling shows black panels with holes in them, fiber optic lights twinkling in a mimicry of the night sky. Pulling himself up onto a stool, Dean whistles low.

“This place is classy.”

Sam sends him an amused smile. “What were you expecting?”

“Dunno,” Dean says. “I been to a few strip joints but calling this a stripper club feels… wrong.” 

“It’s supposed to,” Sam says. “This is an ‘erotic dance’ club. They’re not strippers, either. They’re dancers, or in some cases, acrobats.” 

Blinking slowly, Dean’s brows crawl up his forehead. “Seriously?”

“Just because they’re doing it naked doesn’t mean they don’t have actual talent,” Sam shrugs. “You should come see a show sometime. The dancers here go through a pretty intense audition process.” 

“Damn,” is all Dean can say in reply. 

“Hello, boys,” the bartender enters the bullpen, fiery red hair pulled up in suicide rolls, makeup painted perfectly on her features. “Who’s this?” She asks Sam, eyes on Dean. 

“My brother, Dean,” Sam says. 

A pleased look crosses the woman’s face. “So, this is angel boy’s lover.” 

Weird tingles that aren’t entirely pleasant start in Dean’s stomach and try to make their way outwords. “That’s me. And you are-?” 

“Abaddon. You can call me Abbie,” she purrs.

“I’ll uh- uh, Abaddon’s fine.” He replies stiffly. How are there so many people in this world with such strange names and why do they all seem to have something to do with Dean? 

“Well, _Dean_ , I’ll make whatever you like, on the house.” Her eyes drag along his facial features, before settling on his lips. “I’d love to see you take a drink.”

“That’s officially my limit,” Dean announces, shifting to slide off the stool.

Abaddon laughs, “Oh, honey. Sit down. I have to size you up first, you know. Make sure that you’re good enough for our angel.” 

Dean throws her a glare, “Pretty sure that’s up to him.”

She raises her hands innocently, though there’s a deadly glint in her eyes. “I’m sure. I’ll make you that drink, though.” 

He checks his watch, “It’s eleven a.m.”

“Mimosas all around,” she decides. 

He throws a look at Sam, who’s hiding his smile behind his huge paw. Climbing back onto the stool, Dean leans in to hiss, “You knew this was gonna happen.”

Clearing his throat, Sam tries to send him an innocent smile, but his eyes glimmer. “Knew what was gonna happen?” 

The air on the other side of Dean shifts. When he turns Castiel is in the stool next to him- Dean jumps in surprise, then smacks a palm over his eyes as he tries to cover up his expression. “Jesus Christ, Cas, wear a friggin’ bell!”

“ _Prostite_ ,” Castiel says distractedly.

Dean drops his palm and narrows his eyes. “No you’re not.” 

A little smile quirks Castiel’s lips. “You meet Abbie?”

“I offered to get more acquainted and he rejected me,” she says from where she’s currently pouring champagne into glasses of orange juice.

“He’s a butt virgin,” Sam says helpfully.

“WHAT-” Dean reflexively jumps off his stool, ready to fight Sam. 

“Oh,” Abaddon says, eyes wide.

“Abaddon,” Castiel cuts through the chaos. “What is guest list for this weekend?”

Abaddon doesn’t even try to hide her smile as she passes out the mimosas. “Not too high profile. No one noteworthy has reserved a spot.” 

“So we’re gonna have more walk-ins than usual,” Sam says, marking something down on whatever paper is in front of him.

Fighting the urge to punch everyone around him, Dean sits on his stool for the third time, curiosity getting the better of him. “This place usually reservation-based?”

“We may be classy, but we still like money,” Castiel says. “High profile customers get first pick, always. Sport players, government official. I pay dancers well but tips always wanted, sometimes better.” 

“Huh.” Dean pulls his mimosa closer. “How many people can this place hold?” 

“Five hundred,” Sam replies.

“Jesus, that’s a lot,” Dean whistles. 

“Most of it floor space,” Castiel says. “We have space for five hundred, but usually only allow fifty or seventy in at a time.” 

“That’s a shit ton of square footage,” Dean says, turning around to survey the area. “This is maybe half that.” 

“Acrobatics in different room.” Castiel sips his mimosa, using his free hand to gesture towards a pair of double doors. “That way, kitchen.” He points to the opposite side of the main floor, which has a raised stage and three poles. Beyond that is another pair of double doors, a big plaque next to them with **RESERVATION ONLY** written on it. “In there, acrobats. They do private parties.” He then points to a smaller door, but not one any less elegant than the others. “In there, private dances. Six rooms.” 

“Damn,” Dean turns to look at Castiel with wonder. “You really got shit on lock, huh?” 

Castiel sends him a wry smile. “I am humble.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah you are.” He turns to Sam. “So: what’s it like being a, uh, ‘erotic dance club’ lawyer?” 

Chuckling, Sam shrugs. “It’s… interesting, definitely. I’m in charge of hiring bodyguards and contacting law enforcement if anything goes awry. I’m still going around and introducing myself to everyone and making sure every club manager knows my face. I’ve been doing weekly stints anywhere I can drive to, but soon I’ll be flying out to areas and staying in different places for a week at a time.” He sends a fond smile to Castiel over Dean’s shoulder. “Cas is really making sure that everyone is taken care of on a personal level.”

“Aw,” Dean tuts, wiping a fake tear from his eye, “I’m touched.” 

Sam punches him in the shoulder, but they both share a laugh. 

“Actually,” Castiel speaks up. Dean and Sam both turn at his odd tone of voice. “I am glad you both are here today.” 

Abaddon makes a swift, quiet exit from the bar, taking her mimosa with her. Dean’s unsure about this tone of voice- he’s never heard it, and while it’s not the ‘I’ve got to break bad news to you voice’, it’s suspiciously close. 

“Gabriel will be coming in today.” 

Sam and Dean look at Castiel with mild confusion. “And?”, they both say. 

Castiel lets out a little sigh. “And… I just wanted to give warning before he show up.” 

Frowning, Dean opens his mouth to respond-

“Hell _ooOooOoOoO_ , baby bro!”

-and is immediately cut off by the doors to club banging open, a voice sing-songing loudly from the foyer. The brothers turn to watch a man, small in stature but huge in voice, swagger in, wearing a white suit with a lavender dress shirt and matching shiny shoes. His hair is long, golden, and swept back from his face, the most mischievous expression on his features that Dean thinks he’s ever seen in his life. 

“Well, well, well!” The man, assumedly Gabriel, crows. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful, Cassie!”

Dean’s eyes narrow. Balthazar also calls Castiel ‘Cassie’. 

Gabriel doesn’t hesitate to get into Dean’s business, stepping close and reaching up a hand to cup his cheek, tilting his head this way and that. He manages to say, “Nice”, before Dean slaps his hand away and pushes at his shoulder, simultaneously saying, “Back up, buddy”. 

“I like him,” Gabriel announces to Castiel, who has his elbows on the bar and his face buried in his hands. “And whooOoOoOo is this?” Gabriel turns towards Sam, who is staring at him with a bit of slack-jawed shock. No one touches Dean without his permission and lives. Gabriel side steps Dean and moves into Sam’s space, his eyes leaving fingerprints everywhere they look. “Is this one for me?” 

Sam’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. Dean reaches out a hand to put it on Gabriel’s chest, moving his tiny body until he’s backed up at least two feet away. 

“Gonna need you to stop eye-fucking my brother,” he says. 

Gabriel turns delighted honey eyes on Dean. “Only if you stop actually-fucking mine.” 

Insulted, Dean gives Gabriel another, more purposeful shove. “If you wanna start somethin’, say it, ‘cause I’ll-”

“Dean.”

Castiel’s hand on his shoulder makes him lock up. Shit, he nearly forgot himself. It’s been a while since Rough-n-Tumble Dean Winchester was let on the loose, y’know, since he’s been gettin’ too old for that shit, but he just came damn near close to roughing up Castiel’s _family_.

Hand still on Dean’s shoulder, Castiel looks at Gabriel and says, “You deserve anything they give. Now: please sit and play nice.” 

Not even looking chastised, Gabriel shrugs and quirks a brow towards Sam. “I call footsie with Tall Tree.” 

Sam, for his part, manages to look more confused than nauseous, so Dean’s protective instincts wind down a bit. Castiel moves the four of them to a table that seats them all as Gabriel moves behind the bar, whistling as he makes himself a mimosa as well. The three seated, Dean makes sure that Castiel and Gabriel will be seated across from him and Sam. On top of that, he put Castiel across from Sam to try and stifle any other weirdness that Gabriel might try to put on him. Sam shoots him a glare, Castiel clears his throat, and then Gabriel plops into his seat across from Dean, slurping his mimosa through a straw and batting his lashes diagonally across the table at Sam. 

“So,” Gabriel cuts the silence. “This is nice.” 

“You make a scene,” Castiel says, shooting him a glare.

Gabriel rolls his eyes, “Like you expected anything less.” 

“You are here to meet Dean and Sam, and also help with travel,” Castiel says, reaching to the folder in front of Sam to slide it along the table until it’s in front of Gabriel. “Play nice. I will let Dean kick you.” 

Dean grins across the table at Gabriel.

Gabriel lets out a long-suffering sigh, then opens up the folder, pulling a pair of reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his blazer so he can look over them. “Ah, sending ol’ Sammy on the road, huh?”

“It’s Sam,” the brothers say at the same time.

Letting out a gleeful laugh, Gabriel pulls his mimosa closer to suck down the entirety of it. Then, he wiggles his fingers towards Castiel. “Pen me, baby. I’ll sign off on this lickety-split.” 

“After, leave,” Castiel says, pulling a pen out of one of his trench coat pockets and handing it over. Mmm. The holy tax accountant look really works for him, Dean notes, his dark navy suit and black tie topped with a tan trench coat that should honestly be burned if it were on anyone else. Not to mention, even though it’s a business day, Castiel’s hair is still fucked two ways from Sunday, his eyes grumpy and his five o’clock shadow strong. 

“Nah,” Gabriel says, initialing a few highlighted pieces. “Think I’ll stay for lunch.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “We are not eating-”

The kitchen doors open, Abaddon walking towards them with a few different plates expertly displayed on her forearms. She smirks at the whole of the table as she approaches, setting the appetizers down everywhere that isn’t where Gabriel is signing the document. 

“Hello boys,” she purrs. “Thought I’d help keep you all big and strong.” 

Castiel glares at Abaddon. “I did not say we would eat today.” 

“Oops,” she says, totally unconvincingly. She picks up an oyster from the plate in front of Sam, locking eyes with Dean as she tips it into her mouth with a slurp. Setting the oyster in the empty basket, she licks some juice from her thumb, red lips parting in a smile. “Ta.” She turns around, disappearing back into the kitchen. 

“Is it hot in here or _what_?” Gabriel asks, clicking the pen closed and shutting the folder. He hands it off towards Sam, who takes it and then busies himself with putting it back into his satchel on the floor next to his chair. “Now.” He claps his hands, rubbing them together gleefully as he looks at the spread. Oysters, mussels, a deconstructed salmon salad with all sorts of vegetables Dean’s pretty sure he’s never seen. “No wonder a quarter of your profits come from the restaurant portion of sales.” 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel manages to put a napkin in Gabriel’s lap just as he nearly drops a mussel in it. “Please, stay for lunch.” 

“Thanks!” Gabriel says uselessly. 

Dean and Sam exchange glances. It’s Sam that shrugs, putting a napkin in his lap as well as he reaches with a fork to pick up some of the salmon. Resigning himself to his fate, he pulls what look like lobster bits towards himself. 

“So, Dean-o,” Gabriel says, licking some juice from his fingers, eyes glinting. “Cassie mentioned you once a looooong time ago. I’m assuming you’re the same Dean, considering the fact that you’re, uh,” he lets his gaze drag over Dean’s shoulders, “of the same physical description.”

Castiel’s face goes hot. 

Interesting. 

“How long have you been banging?”

Sensing the trap and the joke it’ll fall into, Dean shrugs. “Couple months.” 

“Oooh, still fresh!” Gabriel sounds way too pleased. “That’s good. Cassie should probably ease into things. It’s been a long time since he-” he’s cut off suddenly, a high-pitched squeal leaving his mouth in the shape of ‘had sex’ before tapering off into a noiseless grimace. 

Castiel moves his hand from under the table casually. “I have been busy.” 

Pouting, Gabriel rubs his thigh as he shoots Castiel a withering look. “Y’know, the whole purpose of moving to another country and starting completely over is to try and enjoy the finer things in life. Not throw yourself into work again.” 

“I do what I want,” Castiel says simply. God, that shouldn’t be so hot, the way he so casually commands. 

Dean shifts in his seat a little.

Fuck. 

“Cas’s been having fun,” Sam says. “At least, every Saturday.” He grins. “And he probably has fun when he hangs out with Dean, too, I guess.”

Dean scoffs. “Psh! Pssshawww. Pssssssshhhhhhhh. Pffffttssssshhhhyeah he has fun with me.” 

“Say it, don’t spray it,” Gabriel says stiffly, wiping his cheek with his napkin. 

Dean stuffs some lobster into his mouth, smiling at Gabriel so that some bits and pieces fall out. 

He can feel Sam’s stare boring into the side of his head. 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says primly, adjusting the cloth napkin in his lap. “I have favor to ask.” 

“As we’ve found out in the past two years- I’m probably gonna say yes, so just ask,” Gabriel says, picking up his glass and getting immediately disappointed when he remember it’s empty. 

“I need you to go with Sam next week to Oregon.” 

“What-!?”

“Hell yeah!” 

Dean and Sam glare at Castiel while Gabriel does a little victory dance in his seat.

“What for?” Sam demands. 

“Your job is to introduce yourself to workers,” Castiel says to Sam. “I need you to assess liability of building and employees. Gabriel,” he turns towards his brother, “I need you there to decide if investment in changes are necessary.” 

Gabriel holds up his hands. “I’ve got my own business to run, y’know-”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “You insisted on coming with me to tours in state to see if you could find talent. That was trade-off.”

“And a damn good one, too,” Gabriel mutters, putting his thumb under his chin thoughtfully. 

“And,” Castiel continues, “it is your money I use to invest. If you go with Sam, you decide now. No middle man. Quicker.”

“I hate it when you use logic on me,” Gabriel whines.

Dean looks between Castiel and Sam, before gently nudging his brother. “You ok with that?”

“Cas is right,” Sam says, wiping his mouth to also wipe away his frown. “If Cas comes with me and can’t decide on whether or not what we’re looking at is a good investment, Gabriel will have to come down anyway to make the decision. It really is cutting out the middle man.”

“What kind of decisions are you tryna make?” Dean asks, curious.

“We must decide if the area will make money,” Castiel says. “Many clubs I bought are in… ru… rur…” he licks his lips, then pushes on. “Little population area. If we learn no money can be made, we shut down club. Workers then need to be relocated if they want. Some of them even go work for Gabriel.” 

“Not as porn stars,” Gabriel says quickly. “I mean- well, a chunk of them do that. But also there’s a sweet market for stripper music videos. So some of the dancers move from stage to film and can still do what they like without feeling like they’ve cheaped out. My company is anything but cheap, but the mental status and health of my actors is a very serious thing and if any of them are uncomfortable at any time, we do our best to accommodate them, or let them go.” 

Dean squints. “Cas has human rights strip clubs and you have a human rights porn company?” 

Gabriel sniffs, “A person’s thoughts and emotions and well-being aren’t anything to _not_ be taken seriously, no matter what profession or career they decide on.” 

Dean points at Gabriel, “You’re making it really hard to continue hating you.”

Gabriel leans forward in his seat, giving Dean’s finger a sloppy, shitty imitation of a blow job. Dean yanks his finger back, wiping it on the sleeve of Sam’s blazer. “Fuck, fuck, ok, I hate you still-” 

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Castiel chastises, shooting him a glare. Letting out a breath, he continues. “If an area has good population but club needs remodel, we must decide if we remodel, or relocate. Gabriel has good eye for these things. Sam will already be out in the areas that need scout. This is convenient.”

“I don’t think ‘convenient’ is the word I’d use,” Sam says. 

Castiel chuckles. “I know this is sudden, Sam. For all Gabriel is… odd, he is also good.” 

Sam sends Gabriel a measuring glance, who returns it with a blown kiss. “Can we stay in separate hotels?” 

“Hey!” Gabriel pouts. “You can have your own room but don’t make me miss out on being your adjoining room. You know, the kind where one door connects two rooms so we can check on each other at any time-” 

Sam looks Castiel dead in the eye. “I want a suite. With a mini bar.” 

Castiel nods. “ _Da_. Gabriel will have smoking room on ground floor.”

“WHAT!” Gabriel shrieks. 

“Oh man, I almost wanna take a week off of work and watch this shit show,” Dean says dreamily.

The four dissolve into a discussion (argument) about the upcoming trip. Dean pipes up occasionally but he spends most of him time just observing with a tiny, doofy smile on his features. Castiel looks much the same, the topic being volleyed around by Sam and Gabriel alone. 

Gabriel’s a weird dude, that’s a fact. But Dean realizes that here… this… the four of them: they’re family. Two brothers and two - well, cousins, here, together. Dean’s got a lot of family, because family don’t end in blood, but this specific situation here? This is something special. As they continue to chat (argue), Dean’s lizard brain brings up that random encounter with Balthazar. 

Yeah, Castiel’s got a past that he’s sorta reluctant to share. But… what’s the big deal? Honestly. With Gabriel here treating him like any old dude, how _normal_ it all is. What’s Balthazar on about? 

Besides, Castiel obviously went through something traumatic. Dean’ll be dead before he tries to drag up memories that might, y’know, trigger something for Castiel. He’s already seen cracks in the armor, very tiny ones, and Castiel seems to have it on lockdown, but Dean definitely doesn’t want to push so hard he breaks. Maybe… maybe little things, here and there? Castiel does share _some_ things. Like food. Little stories of his parents, but then again, even those seem… bland. 

Castiel just doesn’t wanna give details of his previous life. Dean’s ok with that. He’ll come around on his own time. 

He looks at Castiel and Gabriel, trying to imagine them being anything but this. 

Castiel’s past is a thread on a sweater. 

He’s gonna try his damnedest not to pull.

No matter how curious he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to all reading along as a wip!  
> i literally have no idea what the ending word count will be lol  
> so i'm strapped in alongside y'all.  
> y'know, i always forget how much i LOVE writing gabriel until i write him.  
> i love him.  
> just... so you all know.  
> hope you all are SAFE & HEALTHY and if you're struggling, i'm sending you light and strength to get through this ❤


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm already not happy with this chapter and then the formatting got all fucked up and i wanna just throw my laptop out the window but we are HERE after a MONTH and that's that!!!!!!!  
> if there's typos it's $0 in these hard times to mind your business!  
> tw: past sexual assault (not detailed)

Dean can’t remember the last time he’s been alone. Like, totally and completely alone. Not like in some weird emo way, but physically. Sam left in a taxi this morning to meet Gabriel at the airport for their jaunt across the North West, Dean doing his best to not fret over his baby brother as he left the house with one rolly suitcase and his backpack. He’s sure Sam packed enough, but was _Sam_ sure? Did he have enough underwear? What about shampoo? In those tiny airplane-safe bottles? And snacks? Airplane food sucks ass. Sam better have some protein bars tucked away somewhere and plenty of water, Jesus it takes so much to sustain his giant moose body. Also, does he have noise canceling headphones? Gabriel gets super noisy and he’ll surely drive Same crazy if he has the option to talk at him without a barrier. 

A million times Sam had said “I’m _fine_ ”, topped off with a “I’ll miss you too, Dean”, which Dean had spluttered at before shoving his brother out of the door. 

It’s Monday, so thankfully Dean had been distracted with work for the next eight hours, but now he’s home, and he… doesn’t like it. It’s so quiet. Like- look, Sam tends to keep to himself and he’s not really a gabber, but. Like, his _presence_ has a comforting white noise to it. They’ve been with each other so long, Dean hadn’t realized how much… security his brother’s presence gave him. Even when going to school they had pretty much the same hours, therefore they had the same downtime, and… 

Jesus, how pathetic is he? 

Their house is large, not gigantic, but now it feels like a fucking crater. Or cavern. Or something else huge and empty that is one hundred percent uninviting. Not that- not that his house isn’t comfy or cozy because it is, but it’s an entirely different thing to have all of this space to just… himself. 

He’ll get over it, no doubt.

Right?

Tuesday morning dawns without Sam making a smoothie or the scent of his shampoo. 

Oh God. Dean’s like a fucking helicopter parent experiencing his child out of the nest for the first time.

Oh fuck.

Work sucks. He’s gloomy and snippy and doing his best to not call Sam. He’d gotten a text saying he and Gabriel made it to their first stop safely, but then he hadn’t heard from him this morning, so… that’s good, right? Means they’re busy? Sam hadn’t even complained about Gabriel, which Dean has a hard time believing that Gabriel is behaving at all, but. What can he do? They’re working. Maybe Gabriel is a lot more professional than he gave him credit for. 

Tuesday night blows fat dick. 

Wednesday morning he wakes up feeling like he has a hangover. Or maybe a head cold.

When Castiel stops by the shop for lunch, he looks genuinely startled to see the state Dean’s in. They’ve been texting, like they always do, but sparsely. With Gabriel and Sam out, Castiel has been fielding everything from them and for them, so he’s been probably too busy to notice anything’s off. Which is fine! His job is important! And Dean’s just a whiny little bitch who can’t handle being alone!

“Deanka,” Castiel says with emotion, setting down the bag of takeout on Dean’s desk before rounding it, reaching down to cup his face and tilt his head up towards him. His thumbs press at the bags beneath his eyes, tender and gentle. “Are you sick? Why are you here?” 

“Not sick,” Dean says, his voice raw and rough. “Miss Sammy.” 

Castiel clucks his tongue. He drags the other chair around the desk so he can sit next to Dean, reaching for the bags to pull out two styrofoam containers of pho broth, accompanied by two boxes of vegetables. “You must eat. You’re thinner.” 

“Don’t wanna,” Dean says, slouching in his chair. He watches listlessly as Castiel uses chopsticks to stuff the vegetables in one of the containers of broth, holding back a sigh. “Why’m I like this?” 

“Anxiety,” Castiel replies easily. Once he’s satisfied with the pho, he swivels in his chair towards Dean, slotting their knees together as he scoots forward. “You must eat, Deanka.” 

“Whassit matter,” he says dramatically. “I’ll live.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel switches from chopsticks to a fork, stabbing a piece of chicken. He lifts the container up to Dean’s chin so he doesn’t spill on him, then stuffs the chicken against his lips until Dean opens his mouth to eat it. His eyes close, warmth fills him, and the delicious, rich taste of the soup finally makes him relent a little.

“Alright, alright,” he says when Castiel tries to stuff some bean sprouts into his mouth next. “I’ll eat. Gimme.” 

Satisfied, but still watchful, Castiel hands over the container and then picks up his own. They eat in silence for a few moments, and then he says, “You and Sam not… separate often?” 

Shaking his head, Dean leans back in his chair a bit, appreciating the point of contact of their knees. “Never. S’far as I can remember, we’ve always been together. I can’t… I dunno. Even when he was with his fiance he still lived at home. She was even gonna move in with us so they could save money.” 

Nodding, Castiel uses his spoon to take a few mouthfuls of broth. “What is it dogs have when away from owner?” 

“Separation anxiety?” Dean asks, blinking.

“ _Da_. This is what you have.” 

Glaring, Dean huffs. “Thanks.” 

“This is good, Dean,” Castiel says. He sets his pho on the desk, reaching forward to grip Dean’s knee with his hand. “You learn to be apart.” 

“What if I don’t wanna?” Dean whines, slouching in his chair and tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling. He rests his pho on his groin, chopsticks between his forefinger and thumb. 

“I… will tell you now, Dean, I will not live with you and Sam.” 

Looking down at Castiel, Dean frowns. 

Castiel sends him a smirk, “We will scar him.”

Flushing, Dean jerks his knee until Castiel lets go with a laugh. “I know I can’t live with him forever, sheesh. We gotta live our own lives. But I just- y’know, we’ve been together so long. Just the two of us. An’ Jess- she was great. So good for him. I liked havin’ her around. And then she-” he licks his lips. “She died in a car accident and Sam an’ I had to totally regroup. He lost his fiance, and I lost a baby sister. We…” he drags his free hand down his face, closing his eyes, remembering her blonde hair and her beautiful, contagious smile. “Change is hard because we just been at it so long, y’know?” 

“Change not always bad,” Castiel says easily. “Sometimes you leap, and it is good.” His hand returns to Dean’s knee without consequence. “You can learn to support each other without being so attached.” 

“He’ll do better than I will,” Dean confesses quietly. “He’s always been able to just… go with the flow. Adapt. I know he loves me but our attachment levels are, uh, different. I spent so much of my life takin’ care of him. Kids- they’re always ready to fly the coop, y’know? Get out and get away from their suffocating parents. I guess- Sam’s the kid and I’m the empty nester.” 

“You have had difficult life,” Castiel nods, “but you deserve independence, too.” 

Sighing, Dean shifts to sit properly in his chair. He stares down into his pho thoughtfully for a moment, and then says quietly, “What if I’m no good on my own?” 

“I doubt that is the case,” Castiel says confidently. “You are good at taking care of others. You will be good at taking care of yourself.”

“Wanna lend me a percentage of that confidence?” Dean says with a hollow chuckle. 

“Any time you need,” he replies with a smile.

Sending him a fond look, Dean leans forward to press a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips. “Thank you.”

“ _Pozhaluysta_ ,” Castiel replies simply.

They eat their lunch in silence, their knees still tangled, feet hooked over ankles. After Dean starts jiggling his knee, Castiel arches a brow in his direction. 

Finally, Dean blurts, “Can I stay with you until he comes back?” 

Laughing, Castiel reaches up to cup the back of Dean’s neck, bringing him forward to press their foreheads together. “ _Konechno_ , Deanka.”

\--

“How long will you be staying?” Castiel asks with an arched brow. 

Dean pouts, surrounded by luggage. “Til’ Sunday.” 

The other man looks pointedly at the two suitcases, the one bag that sort of looks like a purse, and the backpack on Dean’s shoulders. “It is Wednesday.” 

“Are you gonna let me in or not?” Dean snaps defensively.

Chuckling, Castiel allows Dean into his house. Together they get Dean’s things up into the bedroom, and then on second thought move most of his things to the guest bedroom so as not to clutter up the space they’ll both be occupying. Castiel insists that Dean set his toiletries up in the bathroom however he like, instead of keeping them hidden away in his bag- it takes a bit of convincing, then Castiel says “I know you wear sunscreen”, to which Dean replies “It’s how I keep my complexion boyishly handsome!”. Nonetheless, Dean sets up his things while Castiel heads downstairs to start dinner. 

Looking around, he finds himself smiling. Castiel’s bathroom, even though it’s not an en suite, is amazing. He didn’t really get a chance to look at it last time, focused on using the amenities rather than admiring them. It’s obviously updated, like the rest of the house- the tub/shower combo is pristine with modern lines and actual tile on the wall instead of one of those weird units that just has it all pre-assembled. There’s plenty of counterspace, shelves as well as storage and a medicine cabinet behind the mirror, the wood dark and the walls light. It’s nice. Dean approves. As he looks at his toiletries, he has a weird premonition that he and all his… stuff will fit in just fine.

Shuddering, Dean gags a little to himself and then exits the bathroom. Slow down, buddy.

Heading downstairs he’s greeted with the delicious smell of something hearty. He slips behind Castiel, who is in front of the stove stirring something in a pot, hooking his chin over his shoulder and humming. 

“Smells good.”

“Stroganoff,” Castiel says, his accent making the simple dish sound exquisite. 

“Mm,” Dean turns his head, pressing his nose into the slope of Castiel’s neck. “Haven’t had it from scratch before.”

“American stroganoff is…” Castiel’s nose wrinkles. “No good, from box.”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles, “Hamburger Helper is just designed to fill you up, not necessarily taste great.” 

“Hamburger not belong in stroganoff,” Catiel declares. “Only best cut of beef.” 

Chuckling, Dean pulls away to start grabbing dishes to set the table. “You haven’t led me astray yet, babe. At this point I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.” 

“Anything?” Castiel asks. 

Dean narrows his eyes. “I don’t like your tone of voice.” 

Castiel sends him a small, mild smile. “Just making sure.” 

They sit down across from one another, bowls of steaming stroganoff in front of them. Under the table their bare feet find each other, forks clinking as they settle in. 

It’s like… super weird that Dean doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Well it’s _awesome_ , but also weird. He realizes that he just needs company of some sort to function; even if the person isn’t in the same room as him, knowing someone is nearby is… stupid comforting. He’s not quite sure when he got so needy, but Sam leaving had definitely brought it to his attention. Thankfully Castiel is here to catch him before he spirals. He has the idle thought that he really should learn how to function independently, but… there’s a tiny voice in the back of his head wondering: why should he? He’s got support.

But, that same voice whispers, what will happen when he doesn’t have the support? What if, one day, Sam is gone and… Castiel is too? He could call Charlie, he thinks. Or Benny. Or Jo. Or- well, any of his friends. They’d meet up with him and hang out. But… then again, none of them would keep his company like Sam or Castiel. Continuously and for, like, a long time. Ugh. What’s he become? 

“So,” he finally says as they clear away their dishes, standing next to each other at the sink. “Gabriel’s uh… interesting.” 

Castiel lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Sometimes I am not sure if we are _really_ related.” 

“I bet,” Dean chuckles, taking a bowl from Castiel to start drying. He desperately wants to ask about Castiel’s life in Russia, but this doesn’t feel like the right time, and he doesn’t even know what the heck to ask. He puts the bowl in the cupboard, then takes the next one from him, deciding fuck it. So much for not pulling on that thread. “Hey, Cas…” 

“Mm?” Castiel hums, working on scrubbing a pot. 

“Why…” he licks his lips, feeling his heart trip with anxiety. “Why don’t you talk about Russia?” 

Slowing down in his scrubbing, Castiel lets out a little sigh, staring at the bubbles in the sink. “I worry.” 

“‘Bout what?” Dean asks, keeping his voice soft. 

“About your judgment.” 

Frowning, Dean takes a step closer. “What could I judge you about?” 

Letting out a breath, Castiel pulls an arm out of the suds to wipe his forehead with his forearm. The suds drip away to reveal the inky black sleeve of tattoos. He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I have not told all of the truth of my past.” 

Shrugging a little, Dean leans his hip against the counter. “I dunno, man. That’s not really grounds to judge you.”

“You do not know details,” Castiel says, lowering his chin to return to scrubbing. His features are slightly pinched. “I am… afraid that when you learn the truth, you will leave.” 

“Is it that bad?” Dean asks.

Castiel stays quiet.

“I mean- really, Cas. Is it _that_ bad? It’s your past. Whatever happened, you’re here now. You’ve got your clubs, you’re on your own feet. You’re- y’know, you’re _you_ and you’re really nice and cool and.” He frowns. “Whatever you did or who you were in the past doesn’t reflect who you are now.” He takes the pot when Castiel hands it to him, shrugging. “I was a real fuckhead when I was younger. Made some shitty decisions, said some shitty things to the wrong people. But, y’know. You learn from your mistakes or whatever. Not to mention, I’ve got Sammy to keep me in line and correct my behavior. I- That’s important, y’know? Having people around you to support you and love you and keep you in line.” 

Castiel looks at Dean thoughtfully, causing him to blush. 

“I’m just sayin’, man. Your past doesn’t define you. It’s you _now_ that matters. It’s what you do now, who you are now.”

“That’s…” Castiel slows in washing the spoon in his hand. “...insightful, Dean.” 

Offering him a crooked smile, Dean shrugs as he dries the pot. “Besides, s’not like you killed anyone, right?” 

Castiel goes silent, all of his motions stopping.

Dean puts the pot away. When he straightens, Castiel is still frozen at the sink. Rewinding the conversation in their head, Dean’s eyes widen slightly, his body tensing. 

“You…” his mouth goes dry. “You… haven’t killed anyone… have you…?” 

A deep breath raises Castiel’s chest, before it deflates while he says, “You must understand, Dean. My history is complicated. Many things happened I am not proud of.” 

“You killed someone?” The question is on repeat, swirling around Dean’s head and opening up a cavernous pit in his gut. 

A swallow moves Castiel’s adam’s apple. “I do not think we should talk about this right now, Dean.” 

Completely stunned, Dean asks, “Then when? When is it a good time to sit someone down and say ‘hey, man, I killed someone’?” He’s frozen, the dish towel wrung between his hands, his knuckles white as he stares at the man he’s been falling for. “You can’t- you can’t just tell me that and then say ‘that’s enough for now’, Cas.” 

Putting his hands on the sink, Castiel scrunches up his shoulders and hangs his head. He then reaches down into the sink and pulls the plug, grabbing the dish towel from his shoulder to dry his hands. “Go have a seat, Dean.” 

Numbly, Dean puts the towel on the counter and then moves into the living room to sit on the couch. Well, shit. He’d wanted to know, right? He just had to ask. His stupid mouth. But to be fair who would have guessed that Castiel had that heavy of a secret weighing him down? He knows he should be reacting a little differently, maybe scared or whatever, but he’s just… concerned. He meant it when he said that someone’s past doesn’t define who they are, now. Who Castiel is now, is someone who works towards equality, who likes having fresh flowers in his house, who cares for Dean like no one has before, who plays hockey every Saturday with misfits, who-

“Here.” 

Castiel sits heavily on the couch, handing a glass towards Dean. He takes it, ice clinking as he brings it to his lips, cringing immediately as the taste of vodka splashes over his tongue. 

“Jesus.” 

“Do you…” Castiel starts softly. “... really mean what you said? About past being past.” 

Looking over towards Castiel, Dean feels his heart flutter around in the black hole of his gut. He croaks out, “Yeah.” 

Castiel reclines into the corner of the couch. He lifts a leg to cross his ankle over his knee, drapes an arm across the back of the couch, then rests his own glass on his bent knee. He stares at it instead of Dean, the shadows on his face a little darker, the intensity of his brow a little deeper. 

“When I joined Russian hockey team, it was predicted I would go to Olympics. I practice very hard every day. Never got sick. Never got injury. My team… we worked well together, but we were not friends.” He’s speaking slowly, doing his best to make sure he doesn’t mess up. It’s agonizing. Dean’s on the edge of his seat, but he’ll let Castiel say it at his own speed. “I have always known I like men, but in Russia it is not safe to be gay. In hockey I focus very hard. I did not think of teammates as anything other than people I play with. I could not even describe one of them to you. I kept my head down.

“I… don’t know how it happened. I was in locker room alone. We just won a big game. Scouts for Olympics watched. I showered, and put on my suit. The scouts would be waiting for me. I don’t know if I was… excited. Hockey, I am good at. I studied hard, but hockey would make more money. I wanted independence from parents.” Castiel takes a drink from his glass, staring at a point on the coffee table. His fingers tremble as he rests the glass on his knee again. “A teammate was still in locker room. He was not… nice. You would call ‘bully’. We were sixteen, so already boys have problems. He... targeted me. Little things. Teases. Never physical. I ignored. That day… I could not ignore him.”

He takes a breath. “Ketch tried to rape me. We fought. He was stronger, bigger than me. In self defense… I found hockey helmet. And I-” His free hand moves, elbow on the back of the couch as he presses his palm over his eyes. “I did not stop. I heard all of his teases. He called me terrible things, tried to convince everyone that I was gay. No one agreed out loud, but they kept their distance. I was alone, and it was because of him.”

Silence falls for about a minute. Castiel’s thumb traces the rim of his glass, his voice quiet. “The scouts heard. Three men pulled me off of Ketch. It was too late. He was dead, and I was arrested.” 

Dean absorbs the information. Imagining the isolation Castiel felt among his peers… hurts. Castiel is naturally quiet by nature, probably always has been his whole life. But that doesn’t mean he likes being _alone_. Dean knows firsthand that Castiel enjoys being in the company of others, even though he’s not a chatty Cathy. And then he tries to wrap his mind around someone trying to _rape_ him. Just for being different. Just for _maybe_ being gay. 

“What a fucking hypocrite,” is the first thing that Dean says. Then: “I don’t miss being a teenager.”

A surprised laugh leaves Castiel’s nose, his gaze turning towards Dean. His eyes are heavy and sad, but his lips are turned up slightly at the corners.

“So- what happened? Obviously you’re here now. But this all happened a long time ago,” Dean says. 

Nodding a little, Castiel’s thumb starts caressing the condensation on the side of his glass. “I went to trial. It was… difficult, but it was self defense.” He lets out a sigh. “I could not go back to hockey.” 

Scooting a little closer to his boyfriend, Dean leans forward to put his vodka on the coffee table. It’s a bit too much, and he’d rather be sober for this conversation. “So… you went back to school?” 

“ _Da_.” 

“You said you did government work?” 

Castiel nods, “My dream of making money and being independent… gone. So I choose work that take me away.” 

“Were your parents so bad?” Dean asks, kind of wishing he didn’t have to, but figuring it’s important. 

“They also suspect I was gay. They did not say so, but I knew. Working government took me to different city. It was acceptable work. They could pretend I was perfect when I was gone.” 

Chewing his lip, Dean scoots even closer, reaching out to take the glass from Castiel’s hand and set it on the coffee table next to his. “Cas… What you did- you had no choice.” 

“I went too far,” Castiel says the words that probably circle his mind day and night. “I took someone’s life.” 

“To save yours,” Dean says, voice growing impassioned. “Look. Anyone dying is- is a big deal and it’s… it sucks, y’know, for everyone involved but. He was gonna _rape_ you, Cas. After being a huge dickwad and a generally shitty person, he was going to ruin _your_ life.” 

“My life _was_ ruined,” Castiel says softly, staring at his glass on the table. “If I did or did not stop rape… my life changed, anyway. There was no good outcome, Dean.” 

Flexing his jaw a few times, trying to figure out what to say, Dean lets out a small huff of a breath. “Ok, well- what about now? This point right now in your life. Living here, doing what you do. And- and me. That ain’t a good outcome?” 

Castiel narrows his eyes towards him. “That is not-” 

“If you say ‘fair’ I’m gonna punch you,” Dean says firmly. 

Castiel quiets. 

Dean finally closes the distance between them, taking both of Castiel’s hands and pressing them against his chest. “Look- that was uh, a lot darker than I expected it to be to be honest. Like- wow. But I- c’mon, Cas. That was your past. It was a shitty situation with a shitty result but… _eventually_ it got you here. Shit happens, man. It wasn’t right. What I know is- you’re here and you’re awesome and I’m gonna have to take a little bit to process what you just told me but that don’t change my feelings for you, ok?” 

Eyes glittering, Castiel searches Dean’s face. He must find some truth there, because he leans forward to wrap him up in a hug, burying his face into Dean’s neck. “ _Ty moy angel_.” His English must be exhausted at this point, but Dean understands well enough.

“I think,” Dean cards his fingers through wild, messy locks, “that’s enough for tonight. Wanna take a bath?” 

Something between a grunt and a _da_ gets pressed into the curve of Dean’s throat, causing him to chuckle. He kisses Castiel’s head, urging him to stand up with him. Together they head up the stairs to the bathroom, Dean making Castiel sit on the toilet while he draws a bath. From his own stash he adds bath salts and bath milk, lavender and eucalyptus filling every corner of the room. Turning to Castiel, he smiles softly when he sees the man already looking at him. 

“Do you know,” Castiel says as Dean moves forward to help him out of his shirt. A stupid ugly polo that’s really soft under his hands and actually fairly form-fitting, but still stupid and ugly because it’s a polo. He lifts his arms so it can clear his head, his eyes finding Dean’s again once the shirt is gone, “that I love you?” 

Heart tripping up into his throat, Dean’s fingers tremble a little as he helps Castiel stand up. Dean had blurted out those cursed words at a vulnerable time, something that he thinks about often, something that tortures him at night when he lies down to sleep. He’d thought he’d been an idiot to confess to Castiel like that, but right now, with Castiel swollen-eyed and trembly-lipped, Dean recalls the other part of their conversation on that emotional roller coaster of a night.

_“I have experience with crybaby men,” Castiel says, wicked humor flashing in his eyes dashing any offense Dean could feel. “I know how to handle. I am… expert.”  
Thinking about Castiel with other men almost makes Dean uncomfortable, but curiosity wins out. “You ever a crybaby?”_

_“Sometimes,” Castiel says, shrugging and nodding. “Do you learn by example?”_

_Dean nods, fascinated._

_“Then when I’m crybaby, you handle.”_

Dean’s gonna handle it. He’s gonna handle Castiel so well he’ll fall asleep like a baby tonight and have the best sleep he’s ever fucking had, worry-free and safe and comforted and all that good shit. Once Castiel is fully naked (gulp) Dean helps him into the bathtub, carefully monitoring as he lowers into the milky water. The man lets out an appreciative groan, sinking down into the steaming water, elbows up on either side of the tub, head reclined against the slanted end. 

“ _Eto khorosho_ ,” Castiel hums.

“Good,” Dean replies. He stands up briefly to grab a wash cloth, then kneels next to the tub on the plush bath mat, dipping the cloth into the water and starting to gently run it over what he can reach. 

They’ve yet to be fully naked in front of each other like this, and under the circumstances Dean is being as respectful as possible, but his lizard brain is very excited. He did his best to not peek, but Castiel’s body is tan all over, thick and solid, the only defined muscles being in his ass and thighs. Everywhere else is obviously strong, though not ‘cut’ like the sculpted models in the fitness magazines. Dean quite likes the way he looks. He looks _real_.

As he gently runs the cloth over Castiel’s chest, falling into the humdrum of comforting Castiel, whose eyes are closed and body relaxed, he thinks about their conversation. He knows there are other things Castiel is hiding- like the reason he moved to America, for instance- but with such a heavy start to Castiel’s history, Dean’s unsure about the rest. What if it’s just as intense? What if it’s somehow _worse_? He doesn’t know what gets worse than killing someone in self-defense. Killing someone on purpose? 

He looks over Castiel’s features as he swipes the cloth over his chest. 

What is Castiel Krushnic capable of? 

\--

 **BEEP - BEEP - BEEP**

Grunting, Dean flails around a little bit. He’s tangled in the blankets, per usual, the comfortable heat of the bed dissipating the more awake he gets.

 **BEEP - BEEP - BEEP**

“Nnnnggghhuuuuuuugh-” he groans, reaching a hand out from his cocoon to knock his knuckles against the nightstand. He whines in pain, but keeps flailing his hand and fingers, trying to find his phone to hit the snooze on his alarm.

**BEEP - BEEP -**

The noise blessedly stops. Sighing in content, Dean settles down, fully prepared to slip back into slumber.

His eyes open. He didn’t touch his phone. Why did the alarm stop?

“Dean.”

Sitting up, flinging the covers off of him to expose his now too-hot chest, Dean looks around a bedroom that isn’t his in mild confusion. Standing at the foot of the bed is an amused looking Castiel, who’s holding two steaming mugs of coffee and wearing only a robe. 

“ _Dobroye utro_ , Deanka.” 

“Time is it?” Dean groans, falling back onto the heavenly clouds that are Castiel’s bed. 

“Nine.” 

He sits upright before he even has a chance to lie down, swinging his legs out of bed and pushing the blankets away. “I’m late for work-”

“I call in for you.” 

Squinting, Dean looks at Castiel suspiciously. “You’re not at work.”

“I call in for me.” Castiel shifts to get onto the bed on his knees, his robe parting to reveal tantalizing strips of his bare thighs as he knee-walks towards the head of the bed, very carefully holding out a mug towards Dean.

“Whas’ goin’ on?” Dean asks around a yawn, shifting so he can lean against the padded headboard amongst all the pillows they both punched away during the night.

“We both need day off,” Castiel says, sitting next to him. “Last night was… difficult.” 

Slapping a hand to his face so he can try and rub the last of the sleep away, Dean nods and yawns again. “I’ll say. That bath was _super_ relaxing.”

“You did not take bath,” Castiel says with a chuckle.

“Those scents, man. Also uh,” he flushes a little, putting the rim of his mug to his lips to inhale the strong as fuck coffee Castiel prefers to make, “washing you was… relaxing. For some reason.” 

“Mm,” the other man nods, humming softly as he takes a small sip of his coffee. His free hand reaches to rest over the curve of Dean’s bare knee, thumb brushing over the soft hairs of his leg slowly. “Are you… ok?” 

Weighing the question carefully, instead of outright saying “sure”, Dean looks at Castiel’s hand on his knee. His gaze works its way slowly up Castiel’s arm, taking in his tapered wrist, the muscles in his forearm, the dark hair dusting all the way up to the elbow where the hair fades and Castiel’s arm disappears under the sleeve of his robe. His gaze continues until it lands on Castiel’s features; his expression is relaxed for the most part, but his eyes give away his nerves. 

Smiling small, Dean shifts so he can lean in and capture his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. “Yeah, babe. M’good.” It’s true. Peeling back the layers is scary, but it also reassures Dean that this is… real. Solid.

Visibly, the tension leaves Castiel’s body. He sets his mug on the nightstand, reaches across Dean to put his mug aside as well, then shifts so he can straddle Dean’s lap. Under his robe he’s totally naked, the fabric unable to muffle the heat radiating off of his body. Dean himself is just in his boxers, quite a bold decision for a sleepover, considering his level of prudishness, and knowing that so little fabric is keeping their skin from touching has his body reacting. 

“Is this ok?” Castiel asks, sliding his palms over Dean’s bare chest in opposite directions, his long, nimble fingers curling over Dean’s shoulders. 

Letting out a slow breath, Dean puts his hands on Castiel’s thighs, bare from his robe splitting. He inhales, exhales, closes his eyes… and is grounded by Castiel’s weight, his scent, his voice. 

This is the man he loves. 

Opening his eyes, he looks up to see Castiel’s slightly nervous expression. He moves a hand up to cup his stubbly jaw, thumb swiping over Castiel’s lower lip gently. “Yeah.” 

Their mouths gravitate towards each other like magnets. Kissing Castiel is always a pleasant thing for touch-starved Dean, but in an intimate setting like this - Castiel’s bed, nearly naked, with the emotions volleying back and forth - it has his blood pumping and thinning, barely reaching any part of his body, fingers and toes curling as they go numb. Castiel’s arms drape over Dean’s shoulders, winding to rest between his neck and the headboard. Their heads tilt, lips parting as they explore each other’s mouths like it’s the first time. Castiel treats Dean gently, carefully, nearly fragile. On the one hand, he gets it. On the other hand…

“Cas,” Dean pants out. He’s flushed from just a kiss, head light and lashes heavy. Castiel pulls away, lips kiss-swollen and eyes dark as he regards him. Managing to quirk his lips into a smirk, Dean’s hands slip up and under Castiel’s robe, his hands finally gripping his glorious, perfect ass like he’s been dreaming about for what feels like forever. “Take me further.” 

Their sexual exploits are so limited, all Dean really remembers from the first one is that he cried like an idiot. The kisses they’ve shared have been chaste, embraces warm and comforting- he knows Castiel has been going at his pace, but given the circumstances, Dean has this terrible, awful need to just be… _close_. Physically. Between his brother being gone and Castiel’s vulnerability Dean just feels like he needs to be properly… grounded. Held. Held… down?

Restrained?

His request doesn’t fall on deaf ears, though he keeps the second one to himself. Castiel flexes his thighs and lifts himself up just barely, pulling his arms from around Dean’s neck to untie the sash of his robe and shrug out of the material. It pools across Dean’s knees, soft and fluffy, and ah. Ok. _Now_ Dean can look, and wowza. What a picture. Castiel’s half hard, his cock plump and thick, his balls heavy, tan skin covered in dark, thick hair. Dean’s mouth goes a little dry. He’s never seen male… equipment… this close before. He probably looks like a dumbstruck idiot, gawping at his boyfriend like this, but holy shit he can’t help it. This man! Is his boyfriend! He gets to touch him and kiss him and-

Wow!!

Castiel must see all of this on his face because he chuckles a little, leaning forward to press a kiss to Dean’s lips as he murmurs, “How far?” 

Trying to get his brain online, because who the heck loses their mind at just _looking_ at someone (Dean fucking Winchester that’s who), he shakes his head a little and clears his throat. “I…” his gaze drops down to Castiel’s cock, his mouth going dry. “Can I uh… I want to…” his cheeks flush. _If you can’t talk about it you shouldn’t be doing it_. “I wanna give you a blowjob.” 

Castiel hums in agreement. Dean _sees_ his cock fill to fully erect, some precum burbling sticky at the tip. Holy fuck, that’s incredible. “Let’s switch. Easier for you on top.” 

On top. Yep, Dean’s officially a stupid teenager that will probably cum from fucking buzz words. They shuffle around until Castiel is sitting against the headboard in all his naked glory, legs spread, hands out to either side of him. Dean settles between his knees on his own knees, reaching out with shaky fingers to wrap them around Castiel’s dick. 

Wow. Holding someone else’s dick. Wow. Wowow. It’s completely foreign to him, even though he’s jacked off more times than a human can count. It’s soft and solid and slick and sticky and wow. No other word filters through Dean’s brain as he gives it a few tugs.

Bless him, Castiel stays quiet, biting his lip as he watches Dean’s hand move. His stomach tenses and flexes, his big balls throb a little, but he lets Dean go at his own pace. Thank God. Not that Castiel hasn’t been an amazing lover- y’know, from the one time… Anyway. Focus!

Jerking his cock a few times, Dean lowers himself slowly to swipe his tongue across the tip. Bitterness bursts over his tongue, but it’s not bad. He hears Castiel’s soft exhale in response, then does it again. He pulls back a fraction to wet his lips and make sure his mouth isn’t dry, and then slowly starts to suck the head in. It’s spongy and a lot bigger when it’s actually inside the mouth but… damn, this feels nice. He shifts his knees and thighs on the bed so he can dip his chest lower, bobbing his head and feeling drool leak out of his mouth as he starts to stroke the base of Castiel’s cock. 

This… this feels _awesome_. 

Of course Dean’s always liked being on the receiving end but feeling the weight of an erection in his mouth pushing at the softness of his palate and throat- holy fuck. Something is so _good_ about it. One of Castiel’s hands lifts to card his fingers through his hair and oh. That’s good too. 

“Dean…” 

_That’s_ fucking amazing. The low register of Castiel’s voice, breathy and wondrous, washes over Dean from head to toe on a zipline. He’s making Castiel sound like that! He starts to pick up his rhythm, some obscene sounds coming from his lips. Castiel’s fingers tighten in his hair, just holding, not forcing him to change his speed. Dean’s in control. Dean’s sucking a dick and he’s in complete control.

How does Castiel do that?

Pulling off with a gasp, Dean lets out a pleased hum and licks his spit-slick lips, feeling some saliva dribble down his chin. His whole body is hot, his jaw is starting to get sore, but when he looks up at his boyfriend’s face he sees unfiltered arousal, blue eyes dark, lashes heavy, those perfect cheekbones flushed all the way down to his nipples. 

Nipples.

Lifting himself, Dean wraps his hand around Castiel’s cock, using the slickness to jerk him off as he latches his mouth to a dark nipple without preamble. Castiel gasps, arching into it, both hands now in Dean’s hair, tugging him closer. Encouraged, Dean nibbles lightly at the flesh in his mouth, and when he feels Castiel’s cock twitch in his hand, he pulls his lips away slightly so he can really _bite_ his nipple. 

“ _Dean_ -!” Castiel huffs. He uses his grip on Dean’s head to guide him towards his other nipple. “Ngh…”

Going willingly, Dean nips and sucks at Castiel’s nipple before giving it a good bite. Castiel pants, his whole body trembling slightly. Dean loses a bit of coordination with his hand but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind, his hips now thrusting up slightly. His mouth moves all over Castiel’s chest, sucking and biting, definitely leaving marks behind. He twists his wrist, then gasps when Castiel shoots a hand down to hold his hand _just right_ -

When Castiel orgasms he lets out the most beautiful moan, his head tipping back against the soft headboard. Dean pulls back, at first to watch his cum spurt up over his belly, then lifts his gaze to take in Castiel’s blissful face, his mouth open, eyes closed, tongue pressed against his upper row of teeth.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Dean breathes. 

Without missing a beat, Castiel reaches up to grab Dean’s neck, yanking him in for a messy kiss. “That was so good, Deanka.” 

Flushing in pleasure from the praise, Dean shifts a little, his own erection now catching his attention. Castiel notices, because he’s attentive like that. He hums into Dean’s mouth before separating, grabbing his thighs and then expertly, but gently, rolling them over. Now Castiel is settled between Dean’s legs while Dean lies on the cushy cloud of the bed. Castiel’s eyes rove over Dean’s body and he squirms a little; all he can think about are his love handles and A-cup pecs and farmer’s tan-

“Hey,” Castiel’s face is suddenly above his own. “Stop.”

“What are you, psychic?” Dean snips.

Castiel smiles softly. “Maybe.” He shifts so he can kiss Dean’s cheek. Then, his lips. Then, his jaw. He travels down Dean’s throat, kissing across his right shoulder. Then, down to his pec. His lips move across Dean’s chest, tongue toying with each of his nipples. Squirming, now in pleasure, Dean huffs out an aroused breath, forcing his hands to stay on either side of his body. He’ll let Castiel move at his own pace.

Continuing down, Castiel kisses Dean’s sternum. His stubble scrapes down the center of his body, and then because he’s a caring fucking asshole, he kisses Dean’s left love handle, then his right. He nibbles them playfully, sucks a mark into the left one, causing Dean to let out an embarrassing giggle, hands finally flying to Castiel’s head to tangle in his wild, messy hair. Castiel’s fingers pull at Dean’s boxers until he wiggles his hips and legs so they can come off, and when his cock flops heavy against his stomach, he closes his eyes. 

For a moment, there’s nothing. There’s just Castiel over him, solid and comforting; there’s just Dean, slowly relaxing and pushing his insecurities out of his mind. 

Then, Castiel kisses his cock, right on the tip. Dean’s toes curl a little, and then he lets out a soft yelp when suddenly he’s swallowed _completely_ , his cock now standing upright so Castiel can sink his mouth and throat onto it. His fingers tighten in Castiel’s hair, hips spasming in his attempt to keep from immediately fucking upwards. Castiel shifts to lie down, draping Dean’s thighs over his shoulders, and oh fuck- Dean opens his eyes.

Dean opens his fucking eyes and nearly creams right then. 

The sight of Castiel between his legs almost has his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Castiel’s lips are in his pubes, his throat muscles working to swallow around him. He moves a hand to his balls, cupping them and rolling them around. His other hand slides up Dean’s chest until his palm rests over one of his nipples, a false sense of security before his fingers strike, pinching and pulling his nipple.

“Ngh-! Fuck-!” Dean cries out, throwing his head back. He can’t look at Castiel anymore. He’s not gonna last. Just like last time he’s not gonna last and it’s because Castiel is some sort of sex god and playing him like a fucking fiddle and he can’t even catch up. Everything happens all at once; his nipples throb, his balls throb, and his dick throbs. 

He can’t even find himself to care that he’s ejaculating prematurely. Castiel swallows it down and milks him dry and it feels like fucking heaven and Dean’s whole body moves with it, toes cracking as they curl. 

When Castiel comes up for air it’s with a slurp and a smack, Dean’s softening cock leaving his lips. Shuddering, Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Castiel moving up his body, endless blue depths shimmering with warmth and love and no judgment whatsoever as Castiel presses their lips together. It’s not a deep kiss- some dudes don’t like dick-to-mouth, Dean’s not one of them- but it’s soft and sweet and… the perfect ending to an intense session. 

“ _Kak dela_?”

“Ammmmmmmmmmmazing,” Dean replies airly with a hum. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him to lie on top of him. “Fuck.” 

Chuckling, Castiel presses small kisses into the slope of Dean’s neck. “Good.” They stay like that for a few moments, Dean comforted by the weight nearly squishing him, and then Castiel shifts slightly. “We need breakfast.” 

“Do we?” Dean asks, stifling a yawn. “Fuck. Need new coffees.”

“We can do all of that,” Castiel promises. He finally props himself up over Dean before shifting away, grabbing his robe. “Shower first?” 

“You can go first,” Dean says, getting off of the bed as well. His limbs feel like jell-o.

“No,” Castiel rolls his eyes a little as he grabs his robe. “Together.” 

Dean blinks. He’s never shared a shower with someone before. Not even with Lisa. It’s always been a somewhat sacred space for him, away from everyone and everything. But… huh, thinking about showering with Castiel doesn’t squick him out. Like- he _bathed_ Castiel last night. What’s the difference in showering with him? And he’s obviously being invited. It’d be rude to say no. 

“Take your time,” Castiel chides, before leaving the bedroom. 

“Hey-!” Dean follows, detouring to the guest room to get a fresh pair of boxers out of his bag. 

In the bathroom the shower is running, Castiel holding his hand under the spray. He looks over his shoulder as Dean joins him, and oh. Oh wow. His tan chest is littered with bite marks and bruises, mottled flesh purpling with time. Seeing where Dean’s gaze goes Castiel looks down as well, touching one of them curiously.

“I did not know you were… bitey,” he says.

Dean flushes. “I’m not- not normally! You were just really into it.” 

Smirking, Castiel nods and moves the shower curtain aside so he can step in. “I was.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean puts his clean boxers on the counter before getting into the shower as well. Castiel is already soaked from head to toe so he steps aside so Dean can get under the spray; for a bath/shower combo it’s actually pretty spacious. Together they lather and clean up, Castiel amused when Dean gets shy about using his own products. But it’s a fond sort of amusement, leaving Dean feeling good about Castiel allowing him to indulge in things that he normally keeps under a tight lid. This is the man he's fallen in stupid love with. Past be damned, the Castiel in front of him right here, right now? That's good shit. Dean's thankful that Castiel has chosen to let him in. He leans in to kiss the other man's lips, surprising him in the middle of shampooing. He doesn't care. Fuck, he loves this guy, and he even doesn't mind showering with him.

That was easy. Simple. No biggie.

Why has Dean always been so clenched about showering with someone? 

Then again, there’s plenty of things that he does with Castiel that he’s never done in a previous relationship. 

Once they’re dressed they take their coffee mugs out of the bedroom and head down into the kitchen. Castiel gets a fresh pot going and Dean sits down at the table, checking his phone. 

Finally! A message from Sam!

 **Sam:** You’re not blowing up my phone  
**Sam:** Dude are you ok?  
**Sam:** It’s almost 10 and you didn’t send me a compromising picture of Jo  
**Sam:** I’m fine, thanks

“Do you know what Sam and Gabe’s schedule is today?” Dean asks. 

Castiel sets down a fresh coffee in front of him, glancing at the clock. “They should be having lunch soon.” 

Instead of texting Sam back, Dean hits the video call button. It doesn’t take long for Sam to pick up, his face filling Dean’s screen, brow furrowed and lips thinned in annoyance. 

“I thought you were dead,” Sam says.

“No, but I definitely went to heaven, if you know what I mean,” Dean says with a salacious wink. 

“I’m glad Cas could keep you occupied,” Sam says with an eye roll. 

In the background Dean hears, “Hey, is that Dean-o? Does he know what Cassie hasn’t responded to my messages?”

Sam turns to reply to Gabriel, wherever he is, “They had a sleepover.”

“Woah-ho-ho!” The top of Gabriel’s head appears in the frame. Sam must be standing. Gabriel gets up on his tiptoes to try and see the screen, his eyebrows wiggling. “There’s the slugger!” 

“Gabriel,” Castiel appears over Dean’s shoulder, glaring into the camera, “I did reply. Where is your phone?” 

“Ummmmm…” Gabriel looks around. Most of Sam’s head and body is in the frame, an amused smile on his lips as Gabriel’s head turns this way and that. “Somewhere! I dunno.” Sam bends over a little so Gabriel can see properly. “Woah! Either you two fought and Dean punched you a bunch of times or last night was way better than I could imagine!”

Sure enough, Castiel’s robe has parted enough as he bent over to expose all of the hickeys over his chest. Rolling his eyes, he says, “ _Da_ , we had big fight. Dean is still here because I slashed tires.”

“I love when you’re feisty,” Gabriel coos. 

“Please e-mail me the files of the club you’re at,” Castiel says, standing and moving away. Dean’s trying to hide his smirk behind his coffee cup and failing. 

“You say that like I don’t do my job,” Gabriel says, wounded.

“You don’t do your job,” Sam says, standing upright and removing Gabriel from the frame. “I do it.” 

“Gabriel,” Castiel calls from the stove, where he’s currently cracking eggs into a pan, “do not loaf.” 

“Yeah,” Dean finally talks, snickers muffled by his hand before he drops it so he can speak clearly, “ya sourdough.” 

“Work on your burns, Dean-o, I wanna be toast,” Gabriel says from somewhere.

Sam shifts a little, clearly walking away from Gabriel. He sends Dean a slightly pinched look. “Are you ok, though?”

“Yeah,” Dean frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Remember when Jess and I went on that road trip and you were home alone for a week?” 

Looking upwards, Dean tries to recall specifics, but comes up blank. “And?”

“When we came back you’d lost five pounds somehow even though all you were eating were hot pockets and ice cream.” 

Flushing, Dean clenches his jaw. “Shut up. I’m fine. I got Cas.” 

Sam sends him Bitch Face # 304. “And did you go to him right away?”

“He wait three days,” Castiel calls.

“Mind your beeswax!” Dean snaps over his shoulder, then frowns at Sam. “Look- I’m fine. I got shit figured out.”

“‘Figured out’ like you’re actually ok by yourself or ‘figured out’ like you need to attach to someone like a barnacle to live?” Sam asks primly. 

“Ya know what? You got someone there ready to attach to _you_ like a barnacle so I suggest you go get him before he scars someone else for life,” Dean gripes. 

Groaning, Sam looks somewhere off-camera, then glares at Dean. “Miss you too, jerk.” 

“Later, bitch.” Dean ends the call smiling. He sets his phone down, slouching in his chair. “Y’all don’t gotta gang up on me like that. S’not fair.” 

“We have best interest at heart,” Castiel says. He puts a plate of scrambled eggs and toast down in front of Dean, squeezing his shoulder gently. Dean looks up at him, melting at the soft expression on his features. 

“I know,” Dean replies softly, reaching up to squeeze Castiel’s hand. After Castiel joins him at the table with his own plate and coffee, Dean hums as he crunches into his toast. “How long d’you think they’ll last, anyway?” 

“Actually, they last longer than I thought,” Castiel says, a bit of surprise in his voice.

“I think Sammy’s met his match,” he says with a wicked glee. 

“Ten dollar say Gabriel has kissed him already,” Castiel says casually.

Dean chokes on his toast. “What!?” 

Castiel shrugs, scooting his eggs around with his fork, not looking at Dean. “He has reputation.” 

“Oh my God oh my God- ew,” Dean cups his throat, feigning a gag.

“Do you make counter bet?”

Gagging again, Dean shakes his head. “That’s gross, man!” 

“Then I look forward to ten dollars,” Castiel says, smiling serenely at Dean as he takes a bite of toast. 

“I’m gonna puke. I’m gonna puke up this nice breakfast you made me. And then I’m gonna fork my eyes out so I can get that image out of my brain.” 

Castiel sips his coffee noisily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kak dela = "how are you?" / general term of inquiry
> 
> i got so caught up in the other things i wrote that this got put on the back burner. introducing cas's past was really difficult just because the nature of this story is so... uh... not dramatic. BUT there's gotta be drama, right? where there's destiel there's bullshit. sorry. i still wanna keep the fun tone of this story which is why revealing cas's past was so hard T_T anyway........................................ thanks for sticking around!!!!
> 
> P.s. the other friends are gonna come back in the next chapter because we've got a hockey game to play bitches


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited. last chapter was rough but i'm back to loving this story, thank god

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s eight in the morning… the sun isn’t even-”

“I’m wearing _gear_. I’m _hot_.” 

“I think you’re nervous.”

“You know what, Samantha? Go be a bitch to someone else.”

“It’s ‘Sam’ you sexist asshole.”

“You are NOT helping right now-”

“Excuse me, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean lets go of Sam’s shirt, almost shoving him away as he turns a nervous, falsely bright smile towards the news reporter that approaches them. “That’s us! Er- that’s me- we’re both Mr. Winchester but uh, you can call me Dean-”

The reporter raises an amused brow. She’s pretty, Dean notes, with shiny brown hair and startlingly turquoise eyes. He noticed earlier that she has an accent, too, and wowee. Ok. It’s been a while since he’s been affected by a beautiful woman. Also he’s just flustered because he’s about to be on TV, and Sam’s needling hasn’t helped at all-

“Are you ready to start the interview… Dean?” Her name tag says Bela. Which is good, because earlier her name completely went in one ear and out the other. 

“We are good to go,” Dean says, making a swooshing motion with his hand. Behind him, Sam snorts. 

“Will Mr. Krushnic be joining us today?” She asks with interest, glancing around the rink. It’s Saturday, so naturally the whole team is here; per direction, they’re tinkering around in the rink to set up a nice background for the interview. 

“Do you want him to?” Dean asks, turning to look towards the rink as well. Castiel is currently tightening Charlie’s helmet strap.

“He is the other captain, isn’t he?” Bela asks with mild amusement. 

“Uh- yeah, shit, hold on.” Dean cups his mouth. “Cas! C’mere!” 

Castiel looks up towards Dean. He sends Charlie a small smile, pats her helmet, then skates towards the entrance of the rink. He walks on his skates out on the grass with unrivaled grace (Dean looks like a baby giraffe trying to walk on the grass in his skates), approaching Dean and Bela with an arched brow. 

“Bela wants to interview you, too,” Dean says. He glares at Sam's back as he retreats.

Castiel’s gaze cuts towards Bela, sharp around the edges. Dean gulps. Bela barely blinks. “Alright.” 

“Perfect,” Bela claps, then gestures for her camera man to come over from where he’d been waiting at the van. “The questions are going to be basic. How long you’ve been doing this, how you all know each other, and how the proceeds of your games go back into funding the park.”

“Awesome,” Dean says reflexively. Castiel stands close to him, their shoulders bumping, and his presence helps quell the butterflies trying to puke out of his mouth. 

“Oh, good,” Bela says once she gets her microphone set up and in her hand. She looks at them approvingly, “You’re framed perfectly.”

“Mhm,” Dean squeaks out.

“This is going to be live, remember,” Bela says, compounding Dean’s anxiety with her beautiful British accent and sweet cadence. “Try not to curse.” 

Dean’s smile is frozen on his face. 

Castiel’s hand moves to his lower back, subtly and unnoticeable. 

Bela puts her finger up to her ear, then gestures to Dean and Castiel, counting backwards from five with her fingers.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God-

She turns around to face the camera man, bringing the mic close to her head. “Good morning, Brian. I’m here at Clark Park, where for the past three years local citizens have been playing pickup games of hockey in order to raise money to keep this park, as well as others in the area, in tip top shape. Dean Winchester, who has been spearheading the movement, is here with me this morning to talk about their biggest game yet.” Bela shifts to stand close to Dean and Castiel, holding the mic between all of them and sending a bright smile to the men. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Dean smiles awkwardly.

Castiel says, “Good morning, Bela.”

Bela’s brows raise in interest at hearing his accent, but she stays on track. “You two are captains of opposing teams. Tell me- how were the teams picked? Who are your teammates?” 

“The games have been going for years,” Castiel says. “I join last year, when I saw them in park. Everyone else are friends.” 

“Can anyone that passes through join the games?”

Castiel shrugs. “Most people happy to watch. We have perfect amount of people for teams.” 

“I see,” Bela nods, then moves the microphone closer to Dean. “What inspired you to turn a friendly game into something that can raise money for the Parks and Recreation department?” 

Something is stuck in his throat. He’s sweating. Castiel is a pro, Bela’s a pro, and he feels like a fish out of water. “Uh- the… uh. They were going to shut down the skateboard park and uh. Uh. Put… something else there. So I- there was a proposal-” he swallows around the dryness of his throat. “We filled in the foundation and made a skate rink.” 

“A bold decision, and probably a disappointment to the local skateboarders and BMX riders?” Bela asks. 

Dean shakes his head jerkily. 

“He did survey,” Castiel cuts in. “He plan for weekend hockey games to earn money for park. All people agree raising money was important.” 

“I see,” Bela says, looking curiously between Dean and Castiel. After a moment, she says, “Your big game is in three weeks. What is your usual turnout for the crowd?” 

“Less than fifty,” Dean finally tunes in, able to talk numbers easily. 

“We don’t have bleachers,” Castiel says, “so numbers small. If crowd too big, people can’t see.” 

Bela looks around the rink with interest. “So the crowd just lines the edges?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“Hmm.” She turns towards the camera, smiling prettily. “We are here today to broadcast and advertise the good that these men are doing for the city parks. As a community we come together to raise money for a good cause. Donations are accepted at the Parks and Recreation department, as well as gathered here at the rink on the day of the big game. Tickets are available for pre-sale, which can be bought through Charlie, whose information will be listed after this segment. If fifty is the current maximum capacity, let’s see if we can break the record.”

Dean’s still in a daze. Castiel’s hand and arm have moved, winding around his waist slightly and pulling him in to keep him from floating off. Bela turns towards them, looks pointedly at where they’re joined, and then smiles sunnily. 

“Thank you for all you do for the city Parks and Recreation department,” she says, “and good luck at your game.” 

The light on the camera turns off. Bela turns to start talking to her camera man. Dean sags into Castiel’s body, holding back a groan. Castiel holds him gently, idly patting his waist as they wait for Bela to give them the ok to head off. She turns around, claps her hands, and something… glints in her eye. 

“Well, I think the people will be moved by your love of…” she arches a brow at where Dean’s head is resting on Castiel’s shoulder. “... hockey. Here’s to this year being a record donation. Ta~” 

When the news van leaves, Castiel and Dean walk back towards the rink. Dean sits down heavily on a bench, burying his face in his hands. Everyone skates over to the wall, hanging over it and asking a million questions all at once, congratulating Dean and Castiel and also being generally nosy about what the interview was about.

Sam slinks up with his shoulders hunched and head dipped. He sits down next to Dean, awkwardly reaching out to pat his knee. “I didn’t, um, think you would… be like that.” 

“What gave it away?” Dean snips, shooting Sam a withering glare. 

“I thought you’d get over your nerves!” Sam defends. “Bela’s a pretty woman. It’s virtually impossible for you to not turn on the charm when in front of one!” 

“It is possible,” Castiel says solemnly. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam says. “I didn’t help at all.” 

“What did she ask about?” Charlie asks. 

“Watch the interview when it goes viral on the internet,” Dean groans.

“I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad,” Charlie says.

Meg snorts, “You couldn’t feel it from here? Winchester choked.”

“Shut your mouth, Meg,” Jo snaps.

“Make me, baby,” Meg purrs.

The sound of Benny’s voice comes from directly in front of him. “S’aright, brotha.” 

Jack’s voice is also close when he says, “It’s ok to have stage fright, Dean.” 

“Alright!” Dean snaps, sitting up straight and flailing his hands. “Everyone scram! Get on the rink! Shut yer mouths!”

Everyone scatters like cockroaches, including Sam. Castiel stays on the bench next to Dean, looking at him thoughtfully. Dean returns his look with a glare, brow set, lips pursed. 

After a moment, Castiel opens his dumb ass mouth and says, “No shame in under-performing sometimes, Dean.” 

“I’M GONNA FUCKIN’ LOSE IT.” Dean yells, standing up and stomping towards the rink. “DRILLS.” 

He _knows_ Castiel is smirking as he follows him onto the concrete.

All these fucking assholes.

\--

Later that night, after they’re showered and changed into lounge clothes and dinner is simmering on the stove at Castiel’s house, Dean flops onto the couch and groans. Castiel has the channel on KOMO news, waiting for their interview to air, and Dean wants to die. He literally wants to die. He picks up the pillow and puts it over his head and chooses to muffle his groan instead of suffocating himself. He’s being dramatic. But, like, the whole world saw him being an idiot! He hasn’t even watched the clip on the KOMO website, refusing to fall into that trap. Charlie has already messaged him and said “It’s not that bad”, and even Sam texted him with a “You did fine!”. 

They’re big fat liars. 

“Here.” 

Dean pulls the pillow away from his face, getting an eyeful of Castiel with still-damp hair and flushed cheeks, holding out an opened beer towards him. Sighing outwardly and squealing internally at his thoughtful! Boyfriend! Dean sits up and puts the pillow aside. Castiel sits next to him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He also hasn’t watched the clip yet, promising Dean that they’d watch it together. Probably so he can catch him before he spirals out of control. Hell, he’s already spiraling. Oh God. 

“Are you ready?” Castiel asks, settling in. Oh, his weight feels so good pressed against Dean’s side.

“I guess,” Dean says, already pouting. He takes a swig of his beer. Castiel unmutes the news. Dread grips him. 

“Our next segment,” the news anchor says, “is about local heroes saving the city parks by fundraising money through playing hockey games. A ragtag group of friends get together every Saturday to practice, and once every two months - if the weather is good - they sell tickets to a game that people can attend. One-hundred percent of the proceeds go to the Everett Parks and Recreation department to fund local parks and keep them accessible and clean for those who visit them.”

Ok, not a bad start.

“Bela Talbot visited Clark Park earlier today to see how the operation works. Check this out.” 

_“Good morning, Brian. I’m here at Clark Park, where for the past three years local citizens have been playing pickup games of hockey in order to raise money to keep this park, as well as others in the area, in tip top shape. Dean Winchester, who has been spearheading the movement, is here with me this morning to talk about their biggest game yet.”_

When the camera gets Dean, Castiel, and Bela in the frame, Dean groans and puts the cold beer bottle to his heated forehead. He looks frozen. He looks like a high school senior trying to do a presentation on something he knows jack shit about. Castiel looks picture perfect; tousled, flushed, and smiling. God he’s so hot. Fuck.

As the interview goes on, Dean watches the mess unfold. Bela’s smile is polite and interested, but Castiel taking over answering the questions is clearly unexpected.

_“What inspired you to turn a friendly game into something that can raise money for the Parks and Recreation department?”_

_“Uh- the… uh. They were going to shut down the skateboard park and uh. Um. Put… something else there. So I- there was a proposal- We filled in the foundation and made a skate rink.”_

“Jesus Christ, kill me,” Dean says, slouching in the couch. He moves his beer against his temple, then covers his eyes with his hands, peeking through his fingers. As the interview goes on he sees Castiel take charge, like he always does, and he also sees… huh.

Wait.

Castiel’s arm wound around his waist a lot sooner than he thought it did. And his head rested on Castiel’s shoulder a lot sooner than he thought it did. Jesus, did he black out? They look- they look- well, they look like _something_ because Bela keeps making eyes at them and her smile is so smug and satisfied and- wait- wait-!

The interview ends, the news anchor chuckling lightly. She says, “Looks like they’re rivals in the rink and lovers on the side. What a cute couple! If you want to see Castiel and Dean in action - in the rink, heh heh - then click the link on our website to pre-order tickets to the big game. Since the interview aired live this morning, one hundred tickets have been sold! Not only are you donating to a good cause, you’ll have a chance to see these two handsome men up close and personal! And now, the weather-” 

Dean lurches forward to grab the remote and turn off the TV. “Oh my GOD what the FUCK was that!?” 

“I liked it,” Castiel says. 

He puts his beer down on the coffee table so he doesn’t break it or spill it. “They’re pandering our homosexual relationship!” 

“And that is… bad?” Castiel hedges.

“I can’t even think about how much of an idiot I was in the interview,” Dean says, his gut dropping. “They’re soliciting- what, our good looks? Our relationship? Are people even gonna go to the game for hockey? Or to donate? Are we gonna have hordes of fangirls screaming at us?”

“Do not overreact,” Castiel says calmly. He reaches up to grab Dean’s bicep, pulling him into his side while he kisses his head. “It was not bad. They did not make fun of us or make us look bad.” 

With his face muffled in Castiel’s shoulder, he wines, “And a hundred tickets have been sold? Where are we gonna hold a _hundred_ people? Fifty is pushing it!” 

Castiel gently pets the back of his head. “I think you need distraction.”

“I need a tranquilizer.” 

“I have something better,” Castiel says. He gently pulls Dean’s face away from his arm, leaning in to press a slow, loving kiss to his lips. It takes a moment, but Dean finally relaxes into it, tension bleeding out from his body like he’s been slashed open. Castiel’s lips are a drink of cold water, refreshing and soothing. Between kisses Castiel leans Dean back until he’s lying on the couch, Castiel between his legs and settling down against him. 

When their lips part, Dean gives Castiel a dazed look. “That… that works.” 

Castiel sends him a small smirk. “That’s good.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “You’re a real smartass, you know that?” 

The other man nods sagely.

“I just-” 

Dean’s worries get cut off with another kiss, this one more intense than the last. One of Castiel’s hands come up to tangle his fingers in his hair, his tongue slipping past his lips and rocking his world, curling his toes and drawing out a pretty damn embarrassing noise from somewhere deep in his fluttering gut. 

This time when they part, Dean stays silent, a small, sated smile on his lips. 

“I will take care of you, Dean. Even with big scary game in two weeks.”

Dean immediately pouts, mumbling, “It’s not a ‘big scary game’.”

“You’re scared like toddler.” 

“ _Ummmm_ sorry, this is the most pressure we’ve ever had on a _friendly_ game of hockey!”

“It is not friendly anymore. My team will win.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I said,” Castiel’s voice drops to the register he uses when he teases Dean mercilessly on the rink. He lowers his head so his lips are right next to Dean’s ear, hot breath washing over the shell as he says, “You are going to lose to me on television and everyone will see.” Dean can’t breathe. Castiel’s stubble scrapes his skin. “After you leave here in the morning, I do not want to see you in person until the game.”

Dean’s stomach falls through the couch directly into the pits of Hell.

“On Saturday we will be at the rink separately. We will run drills, not play against each other. And then on game day…” Dean can hear the smirk in Castiel’s voice, the same voice that’s been tormenting him on the rink every fucking Saturday, the same voice that seemed to have disappeared only to be brought back in full force. “...we will beat your sorry ass into the ground.” 

Ok. A few things happening at once.

Number one: Dean’s dick is the hardest it’s been in a while, which is saying something, because Castiel always gets him going, but _this version_ of Castiel is responsible for so many weird fantasies including but not limited to Castiel kicking him in the jaw and spitting in his mouth.

Number two: he can’t breathe. Not in like, a bad suffocating way, but like… his breath has been squeezed out of his lungs and put somewhere else. Like- he’s still breathing somehow, but very badly, sort of like how fish gills still flap when a fish is out of water even though it doesn’t help them at all. 

Number three: this up close and personal, he can also feel Castiel’s arousal pressed long, hard and hot against his own through the material of their sweatpants. Back in the day when he would taunt him in the rink it was different; Castiel would skate close and then away, taking his stupid smirk and body with him. Dean’s never been _this close_ while being harassed and fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“Fuck me,” comes out of his mouth before his brain even registers what the hell is happening. 

The movement is lightning quick. Castiel’s hands are on his body, they’re shifting, there’s a brief moment when Dean gets dizzy, and then he’s- holy shit he’s on his stomach on the cushions, pillow under his hips, one of Castiel’s hands on the back of his head while the other forces his hips to lift so he can rest on his knees. What the fuck! What the-

“Ffffffuuuuuuck yeah,” Dean groans, arousal flashing hot through his veins. 

“I always knew you liked it when I tease,” Castiel says, his voice still that deep, rumbling pitch. “You pretend to be mad… to cover up arousal.”

“Ok ok ok,” Dean huffs out, red in the face and starting to perspire. His hips wiggle. Castiel has him in prime position, but the only contact is on his head and hip. “Please, Jesus, I-” 

Fingers tighten in his hair, yanking his head back a bit. Castiel’s voice growls, “Shut up.” He leans in. “You will only say three things to me: green for ‘go’, yellow for ‘slow’, and red for ‘stop’.” 

Oh! Oh. _Oh_. They’re gonna do this. They’ve occasionally talked about scenes, since a few days ago Dean blurted that he’d be interested in it, considering he’s technically vanilla and anything with Castiel sounds like a wild ride anyway. Hell, it’s already been proven that just a kiss can knock his socks off. 

He’s easy. 

He won’t last. 

He won’t-

“Green,” he says, like Castiel is pulling it out of his mouth with invisible fingers. Fingers in his mouth… Castiel’s… fingers in his mouth…

He’s dimly aware of his pants being pulled down, sort like being aware of a fly buzzing around you, not able to see it but hearing the buzz and the soft swish of their wings close to your skin. Castiel’s fingers leave his hair, both hands are on Dean’s hips, and then-

“ _Ah-!_ ” 

Dean’s definitely never had _that_ done to him before. 

Castiel’s stubble scrapes his ass cheeks as his lips press against his presented hole. Flushing from head to toe, Dean wouldn’t be able to speak if he was allowed to, anyway. The sensation of warmth and wetness on his hole is… odd, and yet so good. His hips rock minutely, trying to both get away and rock back against Castiel’s hot mouth. He grabs a second pillow to bury his face in, muffling his noises and the occasional word that might slip out.

He’s stunned when the pillow is pulled away and he face plants into the couch.

“Fu-!” 

Castiel’s mouth pulls away from his hole with an utterly obscene sound. “I said no words.”

“But-!”

His protest gets cut off with a slap to his ass, causing him to suck in a breath and then release it in a long, loud moan. 

“No words. Noises ok.” 

Dean turns a glare over his shoulder, which immediately melts into probably a really stupid look when he sees the state Castiel is in. Flushed, sweaty, eyes dark and lips swollen, breathing slightly uneven… 

“ _Learn_.” 

That’s all Castiel says, and that’s all he needs to say. And y’know, at this point, Castiel could say jump and Dean would ask how high, because he’s fucking whipped. And who wouldn’t be! Castiel is a Greek (Russian?) God and Dean is but a simple worshiper, thankful to be allowed to pray at his altar. 

Watching as best as he can over his shoulder, Dean’s eyes follow Castiel’s descent to his hole. He can’t watch for long, though, his eyelids fluttering shut as the sensations rocket through his veins. He’s pretty sure he’s wet all over, Castiel’s mouth like a fucking fountain as he eats him out, and it’s hard as shit to not let out any actual words, so he lets out little breathy noises that don’t even sound like they’re coming from _him_ , ooh’s and ahh’s and mmm’s. 

He’d nearly forgotten about his cock until Castiel’s hand grips it, tugging it straight down and pointing it at the cushions. 

Welp. 

Orgasm explodes through him. He spills into Castiel’s hand and it feels like so much, wave after wave- he rests on his elbows, hanging his head, watching through his lashes as his cum crests over Castiel’s hand and fingers and drips messily down onto the couch. Breathing heavily, he closes his eyes and rocks his hips, faintly registering that Castiel’s lips are no longer on him, his body just riding out the sensation. 

“Good boy.” 

Dean’s body seizes, a dry orgasm rippling through him and blindsiding him. He gasps and groans, chest dropping to the couch as his hands shoot up to grab the arm of it, trying to anchor himself before he fills with hot air and floats off into the atmosphere. He barely catches his breath before he looks over his shoulder- and then groans, watching Castiel’s fingers jerking his own cock, settled back on his knees as his eyes devour the sight of Dean’s debauched body. 

When he cums, he spills into his own hand. Dean’s sorta put out by the fact it’s not on his skin, but they’re waiting for test results to come back, so it’s better that it’s not on or in or near his hole but… shit, he’s greedy for it, and _that’s_ a weird thought. Nice, but weird. Castiel’s orgasm is much more controlled than his, though a vein pops in his forehead as he clenches his teeth and lets out a low, almost monstrous roar, Jesus. 

Together they pant through their mouths. Castiel, of course, manages to come down first. He grabs the tissue box from the coffee table and wipes his hands first, putting his softening cock away. From this angle Dean lets his eyes absorb his tattoos, which at this point are just a part of Castiel and something that he doesn’t focus on too much. He bandages the dermal piercings a lot because he forgets about them sometimes and snags them on his clothes, but today they’re glinting under the soft living room light. 

Strong hands help Dean move. A tissue mops up the mess on the cushions, and another cleans Dean’s skin, and then he’s being hauled up into Castiel’s perfect embrace, his broad chest and shoulders and strong arms and his rock solid torso and mmm. Dean loves it here, loves feeling small even though he’s taller than Castiel, loves the security of his embrace especially during the aftershocks of a rockin’ orgasm… 

“Deanka,” Castiel’s soft voice rouses him.

“Hm?” Oh shit, did he fall asleep? 

They’re on the other side of the couch, Dean curled up on Castiel’s chest. He has no idea how much time has passed. Castiel’s fingers card through his hair, lips pressing to his forehead. 

“ _Privet, lyubimyy._ ”

Things catch up to him on a slow-mo reel. He yawns, covers his mouth, then groans. “Damn it, I’m sorry Cas.” 

“For what?” he asks, tilting Dean’s head so it rests in the crook of his neck. 

“For-” Dean blushes, this time in embarrassment. He drops his voice, mumbling, “Not lastin’.” 

“Lasting?” 

“Like- y’know. Or…gasming too soon.”

“Too soon?” 

Dean huffs, “Don’t pretend y’don’t know English now, bastard.” 

Castiel chuckles lightly. “I understand what you mean. I do not know _why_ you say.” 

“The longest I’ve lasted is ten minutes,” he complains loudly, then shushes himself. It’s too late to be this dramatic, even he knows that. 

“That is… problem?” 

Furrowing his brow, Dean shifts to crane his neck and look up at his boyfriend, who is also frowning. “Innit?” 

“Why?” 

“Because-” Dean’s confused. “Because… I should be able to last longer. Like- sex… should be longer than ten minutes.” 

Pretty blue eyes narrow in both confusion and understanding. “Why _should_ it be?” 

“Because!” Dean throws a hand up, almost punching Castiel’s nose. The man recoils just in time, but Dean continues. “Because sex is amazing and awesome and feels good and I cut it short every time.” 

Castiel catches Dean’s flailing hand, lowering it to his chest. His eyes turn soft, sweet, the kind of emotion shimmering in them that makes Dean squirm. “You orgasm because you feel good, yes?” 

Dean’s lips purse, his response distorted. “Yeah.” 

“ _I_ make you feel good, yes?”

“Yeah.” 

“Then I not see problem,” Castiel says simply. 

This is… unfathomable, really. Dean’s always been a guy that’s raring to go but honestly, even when he was younger, he couldn’t ever really last long. That’s why he was the king of foreplay. Get ‘em goin’, wow them with some tongue and finger action, and hopefully make them climax before he has his turn, that way no one notices how quick he shoots. But with Castiel, the script has been flipped. It’s _Castiel_ in charge, the king of foreplay, Castiel who’s bringing Dean to orgasm before he even realizes it. 

And… well, it’s Castiel, not giving a flying fuck if Dean lasts five minutes or fifty. 

“It’s just-” Dean huffs a little. “Embarrassing.”

“Your body beautiful, Deanka,” Castiel assures him, hugging him tight. “All it is, and all it does. When you feel good, I feel good. Sex is more than orgasm.” 

Tucked into Castiel, he knows his scrunched up face isn’t seen, but still felt. “I guess.” 

“You will learn.” 

Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s head as they fall into silence. It’s so cozy here, so nice, Castiel’s warm words wrapping around him like a blanket. A little while later as they lazily get up and head to bed, Dean does his best to take his words to heart.

It’s easier than he thinks.

Man, he loves this guy.

“I will be kicking you out first thing,” Castiel says into the back of Dean’s neck as they spoon. “I don’t want to see you until big game.” 

Settled, Dean scoots back against Castiel’s body, smirking as he closes his eyes. 

“You’re on.”

The two week countdown starts now.

\--

 **Tuesday**

Dean’s phone rings with a video call while he’s doing an oil change on a Jetta. Down in the recesses underneath the garage, he wipes the sweat off his forehead and then cleans his hands, pulling his phone out of his coveralls to see that it’s Castiel phoning him.

Odd. The man literally said he didn’t want to see Dean for two weeks. Maybe that didn’t count video calls? 

He swipes to answer-

-and then immediately thanks all that is Holy that he has his bluetooth headphones in. 

“ _Deanka…_ ”

The entire frame is filled with Castiel’s chest, his hardened nipples and tan skin under his attractive dusting of hair. His fingers are toying with one of his nipples, a flush creeping down his neck to blossom over his collarbones. His face is offscreen. 

“Jesus-” Dean gulps, taking a step back into the gutter so no one above ground can see him. 

Castiel’s camera shifts down towards his slacks, the belt and zipper undone to reveal his impressive bulge concealed by a stark white pair of Calvin Kleins. His hand joins the frame again, obscenely squeezing his clearly hard cock through the underwear, jerking it a few times, a wet spot forming. 

Dean’s hot under the collar. Wowee. They’ve never done anything like this over the phone. 

Suddenly the camera moves, and then Castiel’s smirking face is in the frame, his tongue darting out to swipe over his pink, pink lips. He gives a _wink_ , the fucking bastard, and then ends the call.

Dean stares at his phone. 

He presses a hand over his crotch. 

Counts backwards from ten. 

Reads the text that Castiel sends, which is in Cyrillic, Dean’s lizard brain only recognizing like, two of the letters, even though he knows way more.

Exhaling, he puts his phone away and then puts all of his focus into finishing the Jetta. When he emerges from the cave he moves to his office, opening up the text and doing a quick translation with Google to see what the hell his asshole of a boyfriend is up to. 

**Cas:** Will not see you.  
**Cas:** Didn’t say anything about you seeing me…

Clearly understanding that he’s not supposed to send Castiel anything in turn, Dean lets out a little frustrated huff. This will be a slow death. 

A slow, delicious death.

\--  
**Thursday**

A video call comes in on Dean’s phone when he and Sam are eating dinner. He automatically flushes and almost drops his phone in his haste to pick it up and silence it, which of course doesn’t escape his nosy brother’s attention. 

“Why aren’t you answering?” Sam asks, slurping up spaghetti noodles into his mouth. 

“Uh, I’ll uh, call him back after dinner,” Dean lies. He can’t call Castiel back. Their connection is now one-way, designed to make him suffer as much as possible. 

Sam arches a brow. “That’s weird.” 

“Shut up,” Dean snaps, still flustered. He puts his phone in his pocket, picking up his fork to twirl his spaghetti up. 

Sam rolls his eyes and uses his fork to cut his spaghetti, the fuckin’ monster. “Are you guys fighting? You’ve declined like, three of his calls today.” 

“M’ spendin’ the day with my stupid brother,” Dean says, glaring across the table. Then, he grumbles as he stares at his plate, “And he knows it, too, fucker.” 

“O-kayyyyy,” Sam’s brows raise like the annoying assholes they are. “Just saying, I won’t be mad if you talk to Cas once during, uh, ‘our day’ as you so disgustingly called it.” 

“Nope,” he replies quickly. “Not happening. So! Tell me about your travels with Gabe!” 

That’s a good enough deterrent. Sam rolls his eyes and lets out a little groan. “One minute he’s an angel, the next minute I wanna strangle him. I don’t understand how one person can be so…” he lifts his free hand, clenching his fist and glaring at it meaningfully. 

“It must run in the family,” Dean says. 

“I don’t know how he does it, but we book separate rooms and he still manages to be on my bed when I get out of the shower.” 

“Crafty,” Dean snickers. 

Sam sends him a flat look. “Who do I call to report sexual harassment? Oh, wait,” Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket, putting it up to his ear. “Yeah, Cas? Can I talk to your HR guy? Oh, it’s your lawyer? Cool.” He switches his phone to the other ear. “Yeah, Sam Winchester? It's Sam Winchester. One of the owners won’t stop touching my butt.” 

Dean barks out a laugh, dissolving into giggles as he leans back on the bench, crossing his arms over his stomach. Looking annoyed as fuck, Sam sighs and starts stabbing his spaghetti. 

“It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s HILARIOUS,” Dean crows. He wipes tears from his eyes, leaning forward with a huge grin and waggly brows. “You sure your butt is all he touches? If he’s in your room while you’re showering maybe he’s sniffing your underwear.”

“Ugh,” Sam gags, “Dean!” 

Cackling, Dean wiggles in his seat as he picks up his fork to twirl more noodles onto it. “That’s amazing. Oh, thank you. I needed that.” 

Huffing, Sam picks up his beer for a drink. “He’s like that to everybody. I mean- he tones it down for the dancers because he does have _some_ sense of decency.” 

“Hmm,” Dean grins with a mouthful of spaghetti. “You wish it was just you, huh?” 

“Shut up,” Sam says, Bitch Face #2 scrunching his features. “There’s a reason he’s been single for so long.”

“So you’ve discussed dating history,” Dean says sagely, nodding as he picks up his beer. “S’important when you’re tryna decide your future.”

Sam groans and kicks his moose legs out towards Dean’s. “Stop, oh my God.” 

“I’m just sayin’,” Dean ninja shifts his legs to get them away from Sam’s hooves. “Brothers for brothers right? Or, uh, cousins I guess-” 

“I’d rather date Cas,” Sam throws his napkin across the table.

Dean blows out a breath, laughing deliriously. “No-hoooooooooooooooooo you would _not_ , that bastard.” 

As if on cue, his phone vibrates again. He pulls it out of his pocket, then breathes a sigh of relief when it’s just a text message. Before he can put it away Sam’s tree arms reach over the table to grab his phone, Dean immediately panicking and nearly climbing over the table in his attempt to stop it. 

“No-!”

“Just gonna text him and tell him you’re an asshole,” Sam says casually. Dean almost breaks his knee on the underside of the table as he stands from his booth. “He probably misses you. You haven’t seen him since the weekend- that’s like, way too long for you.” 

“Sammy, you do _not_ wanna open-” 

“OH MY GOD-”

Dean’s phone goes sailing across the kitchen. He watches it in slow-mo. Thank God for otterboxes. It skids across the floor like a rock skipping over water before stopping under a stool at the island. He has his hands on Sam’s forearms, frozen. Sam is also frozen, one arm stuck in a flinging motion, the other hand covering his eyes. 

“Whatever you saw,” Dean says, still gripping Sam’s arms, “erase from your brain. Now.” 

“I _can’t_ -” 

Dean then turns to his brother, shaking his arms and forcing him to look at him as he barks, “ _Forget it_ , Sammy!” 

Sam’s pretty hazel eyes are watering, his cheeks flushed as he whispers, “I can’t.” 

They stare at each other for ten seconds.

Then, still whispering, Sam says, “How does a man his age look that good?” 

Whispering as well, Dean replies, “It’s like he isn’t real, right?” 

“Is it a special diet? Does he work out?” Sam whispers. 

“I think he’s genetically blessed,” Dean whispers. “He has a gym in his garage.”

“He’s tan _all over_ ,” Sam whispers, gulping. 

Dean just nods, still holding Sam’s forearms.

“And his _thighs_ -”

“-I _know_ -”

“He’s so out of your league-” 

Dean sniffles, whisper wobbling, “I know-” 

From the floor under the stool, his phone starts vibrating again. He and Sam hold each other’s gaze for another second, before Sam speaks at regular volume.

“Don’t let him know I saw.” 

A wicked smile splits Dean’s face. “Oh, that’s the first thing I’m gonna say.” 

Both men fall to the floor in a tangle, yelling and shouting, elbowing and kneeing each other as they try to make it across the kitchen to get the phone first. Hands stretch out, feet kick- Dean manages to swipe ‘answer’ to the video call, neither he nor Sam able to see the screen from the angle of them being in a heap on the floor.

“SAM SAW THE PICTURE YOU SENT-” 

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO-” 

“GABRIEL’S TOUCHING HIS BUTT-” 

“DEAN OH MY GOD-”

Castiel’s calm, deep voice says, “So… I should put on clothes. And call Gabriel.” 

Hardly anything can be heard of Dean’s wild cackling. 

Sam tries to yell over him, “CAS IT’S OK-” 

“Remember, Saturday drills. No team overlap. Dean… I will call back tomorrow.” 

Dean can’t even be upset that he’s missing out on what could surely be a tantalizing video chat with his boyfriend, too busy crying from laughter. The call cuts out, he and Sam both go limp, still tangled up. He can’t catch his breath, he keeps laughing, the giggles bubbling up and over. 

Sam’s face enters his field of vision. He’s aware that they’re both sideways on the floor, Sam’s head originally somewhere near his chest, but now those eyes are flustered and angry as they look at him incredulously. “I can’t believe you.” 

“You started it,” Dean wheezes. 

Rolling his eyes, Sam extracts himself from Dean. He stands, leaving Dean in a heap on the floor. “You can do the dishes.”

“But I cooked!” Dean yells at his brother’s back. 

Then he thinks about Sam’s face when he saw whatever photo Castiel sent and then has another laughing fit. 

He totally deserves to be punished.

It was _totally_ worth it.

\--

**Saturday**

As promised, the teams run drills separately. It’s a beautiful day, thankfully- however, Dean and Castiel had flipped a coin to see who got morning and who got afternoon. Team Winchester is practicing at one o’clock, which is probably the latest anyone has played in a while, and it’s a little miserable. 

“Learn how to flip a coin, Winchester,” Jo gripes, pulling at the front of her shirt. 

“I think he rigged it,” Dean says, absolutely boiling in his goalie gear as he puts his hands on his knees and hangs his head. 

“Probably!” Charlie says cheerfully as she skates up to Dean and hands him his water bottle. “But the game is gonna be at two, so it’s probably best that we’re practicing at this time so we can get used to it.” 

“Ugh,” Dean squirts water into his mouth, letting the coldness dribble down his chin and neck to saturate his shirt under his chest padding.

She pats him sympathetically, “I know you love him, but do you ever think that Castiel is um… I dunno, a bit evil?” 

“A lot evil,” Dean grumbles. He throws his water bottle over the wall of the rink, sighing and then shouting, “Let’s keep goin’!”

They’re performing amazingly, even though it’s hot. Something about the heat is forcing them to concentrate harder, which is a little weird, but Dean has a sneaking suspicion they’re blasting through drills because they want to be done faster. Little do they know Dean’s going to keep them in the rink for the average duration of a hockey game- and he’s not scrimping on penalties, either. There’s only three, one for Gordon and two for Jo, but Jo just also seems generally cranky today. Benny and Sam are performing well, but not at peak, making sure to strategize rather than use up all of their strength. 

By the end of their drills, everyone is sweaty and sated. Dean gives hearty compliments to everyone. They take off their gear, chat about their week and exchange excitement about next week’s game, and then people start dispersing. Dean, Sam, and Benny are all that’s left, sitting on the benches as the try to cool down without their gear suffocating him. 

“You’re doin’ good, brotha,” Benny says from next to Dean. He slaps him on the shoulder, both of them wincing when it causes Dean’s shirt to stick to his skin. “Castiel seems to be takin’ this pretty seriously.” 

“He’s competitive,” Dean agrees.

“That’s not affectin’ y’alls relationship, is it? You two’ve been lovey-dovey since gettin’ together but now y’ain’t seen him since the interview.” 

“It’s kinda weird,” he says. He plucks at the front of his shirt, fanning himself with it a few times as he shrugs. “Actually, it’s uh.” He clears his throat. “Interesting.” 

Benny’s eyes twinkle as he grins. “Spicy.” 

Dean laughs awkwardly, blushing. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.” 

“I’M READY TO GO,” Sam says loudly. He’s still scarred from seeing that photo of Castiel- which, once Dean got a look at the photo, he understands Sam’s response. 

Laughing a bit louder, Dean stands up, Benny following. “See you Monday, man.” 

Benny winks, throwing a pat between Dean’s shoulders and nearly knocking him over. 

No one else is stressing about the game, which is greatly alleviating Dean’s initial panic about it. 

Everything should be fine.

… Right?

\--

 **Monday**

Dean hasn’t had an actual conversation with Castiel since leaving his house last weekend. Every interaction has been headed by Castiel, and usually involves little to no clothing… on Castiel’s end. He blindsides Dean with video calls and video messages, messy dark hair, glimmering blue eyes, teeth-bitten pink lips, perky, dark nipples…

Like, Jesus. 

Dean had never not known that Castiel was good looking as fuck, even when he was doing his best to pretend that he hated the guy, but being blasted with all of his… ahem… assets in the span of two weeks is dizzying, to say the least. Every time Dean gets a dick pic, or a finger-teasing-a-nipple video, or a picture of Castiel quite obviously post-orgasm with a crooked, sleepy smirk and dark bedroom eyes, Dean starts to question how the fuck he managed to land this guy. Even _Sam_ has been awed by him! And, like- that’s crazy!

Someone like Castiel is in love with Dean!

What!

The two week separation, Dean knows, is a tactic Castiel is playing in anticipation of the big game. Everyone knows Dean performs better when he can channel his hate towards the other captain. Castiel is doing it for the both of them; for Castiel, he gets off on knowing he has the power over Dean, and for Dean- well. It’s quite obvious how this benefits him. They’d very briefly dived into the whole… power dynamic thing, with the stoplight system, and Dean was _super_ on board with it, like one hundred percent totally ready and willing, but it was just a taste, barely even an hors d’oeuvre… 

Then Castiel decided to not see each other in person for two weeks and! Wtf! Dean doesn’t feel neglected by any means, he doesn’t feel like Castiel abandoned him or anything because he hasn’t, he’s been super attentive… sexually… and Dean like, super misses his stupid hugs and his stupids kisses and his stupid firm chest and how good it is for Dean to lay his stupid head on it for cuddles-

So, like, yeah, it will be ~super awesome~ to finally reunite with Castiel once the Big Game is over, Dean knows the lesson is to not take anything for granted and to make sure he truly appreciates what he has and other stupid feelsy bullshit but for now! He’s! Frustrated!

Anyway-

Someone like Castiel thinks that someone like Dean is not only worth their time, but their energy and their love and devotion and focus and wow. Dean had gone into their relationship with insecurities, no doubt, like not only emotionally but physically, and Castiel had pretty much erased them. Or- well, he’d like… helped Dean accept them. Which is probably better than forgetting about them, because our weaknesses make us stronger, yadda yadda. Castiel spotting Dean in his garage gym also helps. His biceps are in pretty good shape, actually…

Phew. 

So, like, a thoughtful and caring and beautiful man like Castiel, with a complicated past and a very simple present, helps Dean just be… _better_. Crazy. Not that Dean needed outside validation or support to know who he is, even though it helps. There are times in the quiet when Dean observes Castiel reading, or cooking, or even just watching whatever movie Dean is forcing him to absorb, when Dean just… takes it all in. Everything that Castiel went through, the things that he has confessed and the things that he still keeps bottled up… 

Like, damn. 

What an amazing human, to find peace in the end. 

Dean’s brought out of his thoughts when his phone vibrates. He’s sitting on his couch watching some weird documentary about farms, kicked back and relaxed with a beer. Sam is in another city with Gabriel and Dean is finally able to be by himself without having a mental breakdown. He checks his phone, his entire body heating up as he’s greeted with a glorious, glorious photo of Castiel.

He’s naked, his back facing the camera. He’s in his bathroom, the shower running, condensation from the heat on his tan skin. His arm is extended to check the temperature of the water, his head turned slightly, the tip of his perfect nose visible to the camera over his shoulder. One hip is cocked, his perfect, perky ass on display like the Crown Jewels, his thick, delectable thighs spread slightly. No tan lines, just beautiful skin, muscles flexed slightly, his thick hair untamed.

It’s a tasteful nude rather than an aggressive one. Fuck, Dean wants to turn it black and white, print it out, frame it, and display it in his living room. 

Smiling to himself, Dean relaxes further into the couch, taking a drink of his beer and admiring the photo. 

What was he thinking about? 

Oh, right.

Castiel Krushnic and his beautiful personality…

And his perfect, beautiful ass.

Mmm.

\--

**Friday**

Dean’s a little strung out. Going from seeing Castiel once a week, back in the day, to seeing him multiple times a week, when they started dating, to not seeing him in person at all for two weeks is fraying his nerves. He still knows it’s good for him! And he realized that this was also a good way to get him to survive on his own when either Castiel or Sam aren’t home for a duration of time! But it still sucks! He can grow and still be pouty about it!

Tomorrow’s the big game. Sam has been home for a few hours now, diligently working on his laptop silently in the kitchen, probably reviewing what he and Gabriel did for the week. Dean’s nervous, he’s antsy, he’s excited, he’s fidgety. He wants to bother Sam but knows he can’t do that until Sam gives him permission (and it won’t be “Hey, Dean, you can annoy me now”, it will be Sam closing his laptop and asking “What the hell is wrong with you?”, because they’re brothers and that’s how they approach things with each other). So he’s cleaned the whole house, top to bottom (even Sam’s room! Which isn’t that messy in the first place, which sorta makes Dean proud), did a load of laundry, scrubbed the toilet inside and out- he even washed the shower curtains and sprayed down the back deck. 

Finally, _finally_ , Sam closes his laptop and meets Dean’s gaze across the kitchen; Sam at the breakfast nook, Dean ten feet away standing on the other side of the island with his elbows on the granite and his chin in his hands. They hold each other’s gaze for a second, and then the tension snaps. 

“I’m _booooooooooooooooooooored_!” Dean whines.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re not bored, you’re just anxious.”

“And if I had something to do I wouldn’t think about being anxious-”

“Y’know what sounds good? Pie.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow.

Sam plays innocent, humming and looking up at the ceiling, tapping his chin with his forefinger. “Like… tripleberry pie…” he hums a bit louder. “With… peaches?” He blows a breath out as a raspberry. “And a… cinnamon crust.” 

“Pfffft,” Dean pulls a face, “psshshshhsawww. Easy. EASY. A tripleberry pie with peach? C’mon. Child’s play.” 

Sam rests his elbows on the table, mimicking Dean’s position as he levels his gaze with his brother’s. “Basket weave cinnamon crust and… mint leaf detail.” 

Dean points at his brother, “You’re gonna cry when you eat it.” 

Sam smiles prettily, “If you say so.” 

Dean gets to work. He knows exactly what Sam’s doing, challenging him like this, and he’s thankful for it. It’ll take a few hours to make the pie, and by the time he’s done, it’ll be bed time. Then he’ll sleep and when he wakes up it’ll be time to go to the rink. He’ll tire himself out making the homemade crust, tire himself out measuring out the perfect tripleberry-to-peach ratio, tire himself out weaving the crust… 

He sneaks a look at Sam, who has a small smile on his lips as he pushes his laptop away and grabs his book off of the window sill. 

He missed his stupid brother. 

“You owe Cas ten bucks,” Sam says, not lifting his gaze from his book.

Dean frowns as he puts the rolling pin on the counter, “What?” 

“Gabe got drunk and landed one,” he says casually, turning a page. 

Dean nearly rolls himself off of the counter. 

“WHAT!?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love a good brother moment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> there's a lot going on in the world.  
> be the change you want to see,  
> and remember to take care of yourself, too. ♡


End file.
